


Forged

by Ludicrous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Fairy Tale Elements, Fantasy, M/M, Magic, POV Mycroft Holmes, Slow Burn, Sword Fighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28615839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous
Summary: In the frozen lands of the North, prince Mycroft may be the Firstborn but he knows that he will never wear the crown. After all, who would honour him as King? The ornated Mask hiding his scars makes him look more like a Beast than a King.The coming of a delegation from the warmer West may change everything. Gregory Lestrade has travelled a long way to renew relations with their neighbours.They have but little time before greater threats come their way... Will the two men manage to get over decades of prejudices before it's too late?Dive in this mysterious tale to travel to enchanted lands and to uncover secrets (you might even encounter some magic along the way!)
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 108
Kudos: 85





	1. Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> This story first came to me in June and since then, it's been a whirlwind of writing! Warning that this will turn into the longest fic I've ever done! (In other words, we're in for a slow burn!)
> 
> I hope you are as excited to begin this journey as I am! I expect to post one chapter every Thursday!
> 
> Before continuing with our story, I have some thanks to deliver: first of all, to my mom, both my first reader and the one who helped me find new ideas. Secondly, to Johanna and Carla, for being incredible betas and for their wonderful support as I nervously looked at my first chapter... (also, Carla has made a wonderful header for this fic, to be found on my tumblr!)

Greg guided his horse towards the stairs leading to the palace entrance. They had travelled for five days, stopping only a few hours to sleep in barns. No city would have opened its doors for travellers from the West. Not on this side of the border.

Even in Blackloch, the centre of diversity in this country, people stared. He had caught them ogling his golden tattoos and his tanned skin. He had to admit that he was just as curious to discover their culture. After all, no-one had crossed the border in twenty years. Not since the Great Divide.

Greg didn't have the air of a diplomat. He was too bulky, his arms trained to duel, not to sign treaties. The golden specks on his arms represented strength not wisdom.

Yet King John had sent him here, not for his eloquence or his wisdom but for his loyalty. Greg didn't need any tattoo to attest to that; his scars were proof enough.

He had served under the Guard for fifteen years before he had been chosen to be part of the Prince's escort. He could pride himself upon being the newly-appointed King's confidant. When John had approached him with his plan of getting the North's alliance, he hadn't hesitated. Even if it meant he had to travel through hostile territories — filled with wolves, snow and suspicious farmers. Or at least, that’s what he had been warned against.

"Lestrade, keep up!" Anderson had dismounted his horse already, eager to meet the Royal Family, no doubt.

They left the horses in the stables before walking towards the palace. There was only one entrance: through a winding passage up to two massive oak doors. In them, different shapes were carved — Kings of Old. Their lidless eyes stared down at the passersby, their brows raised in silent contempt. Their gaze seemed to bore into Greg’s very skin.

Neither Lestrade nor Anderson had ever been inside. What they knew of the palace and its inhabitants consisted of rumours. Gregory’s older brothers came back from the mine talking of a place full of silver lights and courtesans — balls that sounded like fairy tales to his young ears.

Greg drew a fortifying breath before going inside. Anderson followed, walking in his shadow.

Greg had spent enough time beside Kings to accustom himself to expensive tastes. He spent his days in court, among courtesans and golden chandeliers. He had expected, if not the luxury others had described, at least a modicum of wealth.

Instead, he was met with endless grey alcoves. Corridors stretched in every direction, an empty labyrinth. Greg wondered if a Beast was waiting for them inside, concealed behind one of these stone pillars. 

There had been whispers among the Guard — of a Prince, the first-born, who concealed his monstrous features behind a Mask. It had always seemed like folly to Greg’s ears but now… The very air seemed to whisper witch tales.

Beside him, Anderson gasped. His eyes had turned upwards, to the high ceilings above them.

"Limestone," he exclaimed — the echo of it made Greg wince. "My _da_ used it for our Firmament Cathedral."

The stone quarries were all in the North — it had led to difficulties for architects after the Great Divide. Most of them now specialised in glass and metallic buildings.

Lestrade and Anderson kept on walking. Greg kept his hand flat against the left wall — _at least we will know the way out_. The sound of their boots echoed all around them until it sounded like an army was marching with them. The idea was strangely comforting.

After some time, they heard voices. Two guards were standing before a door. Lestrade showed the letter by the king announcing their status as diplomats. The guards let them pass, their faces set in identical frowns. No word was spoken.

The court marshal watched them approach with barely concealed surprise. He announced their names in a loud voice, although he stumbled upon _Philippe_ Anderson.

Together, they stepped into the King's Hall.

Lestrade stiffened under the weight of the gazes turned to them. There were hundreds of Northerners there. Greg fought not to put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Directly in front of them were the thrones of the Royal Family. They were made of silver and glass, each of them different. It was intricate work, the materials woven in delicate shapes that Greg didn’t recognize.

There, the four Holmes were seated, tall and imposing. They weren't moving, weren't smiling — much like their sculpted counterparts at the castle’s entrance.

Anderson and Lestrade both showed homage by bowing low, first in front of the King and Queen then in front of the two Princes — as was the custom.

Greg's gaze was drawn to the Prince seated on the far left — the First-born.

Every Westerner had heard of him, although none had seen him, the Iron Prince from the North. Nobody could give a clear account of who he was, what he was; although everyone had something to say on the subject.

They said his face had been forever marked by the Devil, forcing him to wear a mask of steel. The Iron Prince never took off his mask for fear of showing his true nature. But everyone agreed to say you could see the true horror in his eyes, cold as the ice found everywhere in his country.

Seeing him now, Greg could affirm they were all wrong. The iron mask covered almost the entire face, only revealing pale skin and thin lips. Yet Greg thought it sad rather than terrifying. It was whispered that the prince had only been a child the first time he wore it, disappearing under its cold façade.

Behind the cold steel, piercing eyes were studying him. Greg found he couldn't quite look away. It felt like the Prince was inspecting his very soul.

"We greet you, Royal Majesties of the North." Greg and Anderson both bowed, then Anderson held out a delicately decorated chest. "King John sends you this ring as a token of his friendship."

“Cathair,” King Robert gestured imperiously with an arm. 

An armed guard appeared from one shadowed corner of the room. He had been invisible until now and frowned at the sudden interest directed at him. He took the chest and in two long strides, disappeared behind a curtain.

"Welcome to Blackloch Castle, missionaries from the West. We are saddened to hear of King Constantine’s passing, although we have high hopes for his succession," the Queen answered. Her eyes were as calculating as her son's. "We are told you have come to deliver a message. Rest assured that it will be heard. But for now, you are free to discover our castle and our ways." The Queen paused, tilting her head forward. "I'm sure it will be of great interest to you, soldiers."

"We thank you, your Royal Majesties." Anderson's voice had gone squeaky but at least he hadn't forgotten his manners.

Greg exchanged very few words with the Northern courtesans before he had to step outside. The combination of odours was making him dizzy — the perfumes and the foods combining into a revolting smell.

He found shelter on a balcony, some way from the crowd.

Anderson had stayed inside, unsupervised, and hopefully, he wouldn’t ruffle too many feathers in a few minutes. The man had found an enraptured audience for his architectural facts. It meant that Greg could delight in some much-needed silence.

At King John's court, the windows were always open, fresh marine air flowing inside. Greg inhaled the brisk air of Blackloch in great gulps, his heart straining. He already missed the Western salty air of home.

Greg opened his high collar to the night air. His eyes wandered over the landscape, passing over the frozen lake and the snow-covered trees. From this high up, with the sounds of laughs and life and the warmth of the court on his back, it felt peaceful. A longing to lie in the fresh snow below, eyes closed, washed through him. He wondered whether the forest would be silent save for Greg’s breaths or whether he’d hear the sounds of the wind through the branches, of the rodents scurrying to their burrows under the snow.

Some music reached his ears, and Greg straightened up and tilted his head towards the festivities inside.

He couldn't bring himself to go back inside. Not yet.

It was not a dereliction of duty. King John hadn’t sent him here to mingle with the crowds but to deliver a simple message. If only the Queen had set a meeting... It seemed she merely planned to let them stand by for a few days. Their only hope was that they would get to communicate with the Royals before they were delivered back to the castle’s door.

"Is the view vastly different from the one in Duskant?"

Greg turned around sharply. He had thought his escape had gone unnoticed — he had been wrong.

The Iron Prince stood in front of him. In the twilight, the mask cut strange shapes in the Prince's shadow. It looked like a mythological creature — the kind his Ma would describe when he was little.

Greg folded into a bow through instinct alone. When he got back up, the Prince had turned his head towards the mountains in the East. From this angle, Greg could discern the pale slit between the skin and the mask.

"It is, Your Highness." Greg leaned on the balcony railing, watching the frozen lake below. "The sea stretches out around the palace, and on misty days we can't see the coast at all."

Duskant was connected to the mainland by a thin strip of land. When the mist settled, it seemed like the palace was all that existed in the world.

"I wonder if it would feel like freedom or isolation, this palace." The Prince turned his pale eyes to Greg. "This was not the proper thing to say about your country, I apologize. I am merely curious about the way of life in the West — what they don't teach in books."

Greg marvelled at how the Prince talked — in a slow, controlled way. Every word was carefully weighed before passing those lips.

"No apology needed, Your Highness." Greg turned fully towards the Prince, gaze never wavering from his face. "It is only natural that we should be interested in the culture of our neighbours. After all, our two countries have been kept separated for long; much has changed since."

Greg was looking squarely into the Prince's eyes, yet he couldn't decipher what they told him. Was the Prince frowning or smiling? There was no way to tell what expression the mask concealed — if any.

"Is it true that King Constantine passed away?"

Greg looked down, towards the frozen lake. He had shared John's grief until it had become his own, yet in his heart, he did not miss his King. The man had become embittered in his old age. He couldn't handle any shift in his country. He had forgotten that change was at the root of every life.

"Your silence answers me too well." The Prince turned to look towards the thrones where his parents sat for a moment. "And how is your new King? Do you have faith in his ruling?"

Greg squared his shoulders. This was the moment they had been preparing for days, _weeks_. If he could convince their eldest, he could convince the King and Queen to accept an audience.

"King John is the fresh wind the country needed. I have followed him through most of his life, and I can certify that he is prepared to assume the role of King."

"Even though he has sent you on a terrible Quest, into the wolf's mouth?" There was an edge in the Prince’s words, making it impossible to know if he was joking or being serious.

"He sent me because I was loyal enough to obey his orders and plead his cause."

The Prince tilted his head. "You are not a diplomat."

"Indeed I am not." Greg inclined his head in a half-bow. "I am but a soldier, as the Queen stated. King John hoped sending his most loyal guards would stir their Majesties' hearts."

"A diplomat would have been shown the path home without an official recognition at Court. Perhaps your King wasn't mistaken." The Prince let his icy eyes rest on Greg's face, reading him. "I shall attempt to convince the Queen to organize an audience."

Greg felt his eyebrows rise towards his hairline. He had expected days of conversations before he could get that far. He would have to write to John tonight; the King would be pleased.

"I thank you for your help, Highness. I wasn't expecting you to be so welcoming." Greg stopped and rubbed his neck, conscious of the faux pas he had just made. "I didn't mean—"

"Do not fret, soldier." There was a definite smile warming the Prince's voice. "Logic dictates that the cold lands of the North should be inhospitable and frosty. Indeed sometimes they are."

"I should know better than to utter stereotypes while attempting to thank you." Greg let out a forced smile. "I'm afraid I don't make a good diplomat."

"On the contrary. Your honesty makes you better than any of those honey-tongued serpents."

The Prince was looking intently at Lestrade. The sounds of the Court chatting inside faded away, leaving only the breeze in the trees and the Prince's slow breaths.

Greg wondered what the Prince saw when he looked at Greg's simple clothes and his traveller boots. The only valuable thing he carried was his mother's ring.

The Prince, although dressed very simply in black attire, was adorned with tailored clothes. It was evident in the way the fabric softly shone in the dark as though it was made of the stars above Duskant.

"Lestrade! Don't think you can leave me to sweet-talk every maiden in the country!" Anderson's voice, usually loud, turned raucous with the alcohol he had consumed. He appeared, his face pink with the delights of the heartwarming drinks absorbed.

The Prince moved back inside with a terse nod. Anderson took a step back when he caught sight of the mask. The Prince took a few stiff steps, shoulders high, before disappearing indoors.

"You could not have picked a better time, Anderson..." Greg sighed.

"Aw, Greggie, I knew you secretly missed me, all on your own outside!"

Greg sighed again, glancing back inside. _Not on my own, no._


	2. Echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on, all chapters will be written using Mycroft's POV! I hope you enjoy this one!

Mycroft sat back down on his throne, his mind buzzing with words and thoughts.

On his right, the Queen hissed: "Where did you go? And where is your brother?"

"I had gone out to get some air," Mycroft lied.

Somehow he didn't want to recount every word the foreigner had uttered. He wanted to keep the memory of the warm gaze in his heart, where it couldn't be dug out and looked at in the full light.

Concerning Sherlock, the little Prince could be anywhere. Mycroft had tried telling him not to sneak around, but Sherlock didn't listen to him much, these days. Fearing the impact of Mycroft’s influence on Sherlock’s mind, the King and Queen had sent him away to Orlon.

Officially, it was to complete his studies. In reality, it meant that he had missed precious years of his little brother’s youth — the Prince had recently turned thirteen, yet Mycroft had trouble not thinking of him as the child he once knew.

The Queen called forward a servant, ordering him to find _Prince William_. She had taken to calling him by his royal name with renewed strength, dismissing the moniker Sherlock as a sobriquet unfit for a future king.

The servant hurried away. He looked determined, although Mycroft was certain Sherlock wouldn't be found if he didn't want to be. Mainly because he had stopped responding to the name William after the first six months — if he ever had.

"We should have the North Wing rooms prepared for the two foreigners," the Queen said to the King.

"The castle doesn't host many at the moment, my dear, we still have plenty of room in the East Wing. It would be perfectly suitable, yes, perfectly suitable."

"The East Wing rooms are saved for special guests. You cannot possibly offer them to commoners, soldiers! Lady Smallwood and her husband would be offended!"

"But, my dear, surely you realize that placing them above the lake isn't safe..."

"The lake is frozen, Robert. There is nothing to fear." The Queen put her hand on the King's arm and squeezed, adding something in a low murmur.

Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on the painting in front of him. It was supposedly a portrait of an ancestor — the first Holmes to have reigned: Queen Isabella. She had the same haughty expression as the current Queen, although the resemblance ended there. Her hair was stark black, and Mycroft sincerely hoped that the painter’s imagination was getting the better of him when he had added the blazing blue eyes. She was wearing a dress made of heavy cloth, and the pattern seemed to move and flow like water under Mycroft’s gaze. 

His eyes took in all these details, yet his thoughts were turned to something else entirely.

The black lake had always scared him. He had some vague memories of begging his parents to let him skate on it when he was very young. Then the nightmares had begun. 

They started as quiet, joyful dreams. He was walking with Sherlock, and the little Prince was smiling at him in a way he hadn't since he was four.

After some time, Mycroft's foot slipped. He realized they had strayed onto the ice. Far, far away from the trees and the castle.

As he tried to get them back home, pushing his little brother in front of him, he would hear the ice cracking. A soft, delicate sound. _The shattering of a heart._

Then the fall; slow at first, a freefall before water engulfed him. _Cold water, fingers against his skin._ He lost his brother in the confusion. He forgot where the sky was, whether to swim upwards or downwards.

And then it wouldn't matter anymore, because _they_ had found him.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft jerked out of his thoughts. The situation was getting worse by the minute. This time, he had managed to daydream about his nightmares, making them as vivid as they were once he was asleep. He made a mental note to ask Molly about some calming droughts — with some luck, they would quieten his mind.

"I think I will retire to my room now, milady." Mycroft bowed his head towards the Queen.

He bowed to the King, too, but didn't get any answer other than a soft snore.

Quietly, he returned to his rooms. The whole evening had felt magical, surreal. The apparition of strangers from the West, the conversation on the balcony with the silver-haired soldier and the nightmare...

Mycroft turned into a new corridor, towards where his new room was. He used to have one next to Sherlock's, in the West Wing. It had apparently been turned into a guest room in his absence. He had been relocated to the North Wing, with windows facing the lake.

It was for the best; that way he could keep Sherlock safe.

His brother had stopped visiting him in his chambers after spending a few nights waiting for the door to open. He seemed to resent Mycroft for leaving; perhaps he had forgotten that awful night.

Mycroft had no such luck. It was always on the edge of his mind when he looked at his brother.

_"Mycroft, are you listening to me?"_

_Mycroft looked up sharply. His brother's antics had distracted him — and Mother's stories bored him._

_Once he was made King Counsellor, he would need to remember the nobles, in order to drop the right name at the right time. Until then, his mother had taken it upon herself to prepare him for his role._

_Tonight, however, Mycroft was distracted. He had been wandering his mind's library, trying to find the perfect story to read to Sherlock tonight. He had concluded that he would have to invent a new one if he was to hold the little boy's attention._

_As a result, he could no longer remember if they were talking of Lord Astenius or Sir Astricius_ — _a grave mistake._

_"Yes, Mother."_

_Mother gave a quick nod before pursuing her lecture. The King, seated on her right, had stopped listening about an hour ago. His head had since drooped on his shoulder and his hand had dropped his spoon. Every few minutes, Mother would answer one of his quiet snores with a huff._

_Despite Mycroft's heavy arms around him, Sherlock managed to get up on Mycroft's lap. Having his brother's face staring at him from up close meant it was impossible to concentrate on Mother's speech._

_"What is it, Sherlock? Do you want to go back to your seat?"_

_Sherlock shook his curls around. He never talked much in front of Mother, reserving his monologues for his older brother._

_"Behave, Sherlock." Mother instructed quietly. Mycroft deciphered the controlled anger in her gaze, her thinned lips._

_Sherlock tapped on Mycroft's nose to get his attention. It had been his favourite game when he was younger. Mycroft would pat Sherlock's little nose and in return, Sherlock would nudge Mycroft's. The metallic noise the mask made never failed to amuse Sherlock._

_"Sherlock, sit down."_

_Mycroft's whole body tensed. The quiet shift almost made Sherlock lose his balance. The little boy grappled at Mycroft to stay upright. His hands grazed short hair before landing on the cord hidden underneath._

_The next few seconds felt like whole centuries to Mycroft yet the whole ordeal only lasted a few seconds —_ a flash of light.

_Mother got up, her chair grating against the floorboard. The King gave a violent jerk as he woke up. His bowl of cold soup tainted the tablecloth green as it tipped over._

_Sherlock turned around to watch the scene. As his eyes met Mother's thunderous expression, his feet trembled under him._

_Mycroft stopped his brother's fall with one hand, the other coming up around his cheek to settle him._

_It meant nothing prevented the fall of Mycroft's mask. Sherlock had tugged on the cord when he fell and the loose knot had come undone._

_The heavy metal left Mycroft's face, hitting his soft stomach before landing on the floor._

_The sound of it must have been deafening, yet Mycroft only perceived his loud breathing. He was vaguely aware of pushing his little brother away from him. His hand grappled for the cord._

_He put the mask sharply back against his face. It hid the heat of his cheeks but it couldn't conceal the unshed tears gathering in his eyes._

_"Sherl_ — _" Mycroft's voice stuttered to a halt at a movement from the King's hand._

_"Do not address the Prince in this manner." King Robert was rising, his brow drawn. "You have done enough already."_

_The Queen was shaking, her face livid. "Out!" she cried._

Mycroft put a hand on the wall to support himself. His long legs were trembling as if he had completed a run. He took deep, calming breaths.

It was coming back to Blackloch, he decided. It had opened a can of worms inside his head, disturbing the peace there. He had worked very hard to sort through his memories, deleting those he didn't need and pushing others far away. He wasn't about to let the reminder of one dinner and a delusion created during his sleep frighten him.

Mycroft oriented his steps towards the kitchens. What he needed was a hot beverage and a book. Once his mind had calmed, he would go back to his bed. For now, he needed to walk as far away from the lake as he could.


	3. Daylight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is less gloomy than the last one! We get introduced to some lovely characters - Mycroft's servant and the renowned apothecary. I hope you'll enjoy it!

In the morning, the fears of the night seemed derisory. Mycroft walked to the window. Under the light of the sun, the lake looked almost inviting, its ice glittering softly.

Mycroft caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. He turned away from the sight of the weird markings on his face. His mask was waiting for him on his bedside table. He hastily tied it.

He called a servant to dress him for the day only once he had checked the mask was snug against his skin.

Faith appeared in the room, her feet silent on the floor. She had dressed Mycroft since his infancy, therefore she acted more like a nurse than a servant.

"You've managed to tie it into a knot again, young master." Despite Mycroft's numerous protests, she had never stopped calling him _young master_. "Let me help fix it."

Mycroft turned away from the helpful hands and re-tied it more securely. He realized that at this point, Faith didn't expect him to accept her help. He didn't understand why she offered it anyway.

Faith dressed him mostly in silence. After some time, she hummed to herself.

"You have been having nightmares again." Faith looked at Mycroft, through the mask — into his eyes, his heart. "You should ask Molly for one of her plants. She gave an infusion to my nephew for his insomnia, and it worked like a charm. That girl is a miracle."

Mycroft smiled thinly behind his mask. He had only met Molly twice, but she had made quite an impression.

When they had met, she had waded through the crowd around the King and Queen to stare at Mycroft. He had taken her for a curious town person, staring at his mask, until she had spoken.

_You will need an ointment for your skin. I have just the thing for you. Come fetch it at my shop tomorrow._

And Mycroft had. He had applied the cream on the rough patches of skin on his face until they had disappeared. He kept on applying it on the days when the air was humid and the mask scratched at his skin.

"Perhaps I should." Mycroft mused.

Faith laced his sleeves with care, her bright smile half-hidden by her frizzy hair. She usually had her hair back in multiple, tight braids, when she needed to tend to guests, but since the castle was mostly empty, she had only pulled it back with a yellow ribbon. Various rebellious curls kept springing into her eyes.

She finished with a flourish.

"There you go, dear. Do you want me to bring your white cloak?"

Mycroft nodded, gripping her arm briefly in thanks. He would use the cloak to go into town, later. For now, he needed to talk to his mother before she finished her breakfast.

He found Queen Esther alone at their dark marble table. She had drawn only one curtain, leaving the room in darkness. As Mycroft watched, her shoulders quietly shook.

Mycroft must have let out a sound of surprise — a gasp, a drawn breath — because the Queen looked up. She straightened on her chair and smiled.

"You should have announced yourself, Mycroft." Her voice did not shake or break; apart from a slightly quieter tone, it was impossible to tell that she had been crying only minutes before. "You know that."

"Yes, milady. My apologies." Mycroft bowed his head, looking down at the floor.

After a few seconds of silence, the Queen deeply inhaled.

"Did you wish to tell me something? We rarely see you down here in the morning."

The Prince had stopped showing up for meals if they didn't have guests invited. When he came back, the Queen had gently pulled him aside and explained that eating in front of others was highly improper for a Prince. They both ignored the fact that Sherlock could very well make a mess of his soup and dance on the tables if he wished.

The real problem lay in Mycroft’s mask. As he ate, it would move uncomfortably — and leave some of his scars on show for everyone to see.

No, he could not eat at the same table as everyone else — he went to Mrs Hudson to eat in her kitchens, usually standing.

"I had... an inquiry." Mycroft considered his next words carefully; the last thing he wanted was to make the Queen feel cornered. "Concerning these Westerners. I was wondering what you had decided to tell them?"

"I appreciate how you're trying to interest yourself in politics. It is important for the future that you understand every aspect of a problem before you try to solve it. And this time, you're missing key points." The Queen sent a pointed glance at Mycroft's mask. "We can't possibly ask you to notice everything."

Mycroft hid the tightening of his shoulders by folding his arms across his back.

The Queen thought he ignored everything, that the Prince stayed hidden inside. But he had sneaked out into the town and besides, he had ways to know things even while staying in the castle.

Twenty-seven years ago, King Constantine and King Robert’s friendship had been broken irreparably. Esther, at the time King Constantine’s fiancée, had agreed to elope with King Robert, choosing love over her previous commitment. It destroyed the trust between the two men.

King Constantine thought his fiancee had been stolen away from him. Neither the King nor the Queen could forgive him his patriarchal vision, and despite having been raised together, from that event on, they hated each other.

Mycroft believed only Robert and Constantine’s shared love for the Queen stopped them from starting a war.

"I don't mean to insinuate that I understand the whole conflict. All I know—" Mycroft licked his lips, jolting the mask. "All I know is that there are ports in the West. They have linen, they have fresh water that's not frozen." Mycroft pressed his thumb against his forearm, behind his back. "I'm saying that we could benefit from an alliance with the West."

He watched as the Queen's mask of indifference shifted. She was unreadable to most, but Mycroft had spent two decades learning. He recognized the glint in her eyes, the way she moved forward.

"I shall consider it." Queen Esther jerked her chin in clear dismissal.

Mycroft knew better than to insist. He had managed to use arguments that didn't involve the strangers. He knew the Queen disliked them — disliked the scruffy looks of soldiers in her halls. Yet there was some hope. Maybe the King would appreciate their skills.

Mycroft retreated to his room to get his cloak and then snuck out of the castle — through the kitchens. Fortunately, Mrs Hudson was immersed in the preparation of the dinner. Otherwise, she would have forced an apple or a pastry into Mycroft's hands.

The assistant cooks went from the kitchens to the market using a small path leading downwards. Mycroft lowered the hood of the cloak over his head and followed the same path, at a slightly slower pace — his leg was acting up again.

The market was full of people from every corner of the country. Mycroft could have been invisible for all the attention he was getting. It was soothing not to endure the stares on his back, his face, his mask.

Mycroft had only gone once to the little, dingy apothecary. He remembered thinking that he must have taken a wrong turn and had ended up in the wrong shop. Instead of the chaos that he had expected — vials of bubbling liquids, various dangerous-looking plants and some heady-smelling balms — he had been met with an entirely clean space. He had been holding his breath, anticipating the heady smell of flowers and plants, yet when he took a breath the only scent was something flowery but discreet.

This time, Mycroft entered the shop with a lot more confidence. Molly was waiting for him behind the counter — she smiled as if she had predicted his visit. She had tied her brown hair in tight braids with multiple ribbons. Instead of using the standard blue ones, she had seemingly used whatever ribbon fell into her hand. The result was — quite original.

Within moments, she had handed Mycroft a vial with some potion for a dreamless sleep, another ointment for his skin and some dried leaves for his mind. 

Mycroft bristled as she added the last item to the counter, already shaking his head in disagreement — who was she to declare that his mind needed any tending to? He was feeling _perfectly_ fine.

"Now, no need to take it personally. I merely meant that your mind is cluttered and you are feeling lost. Some of these plants in hot water would clear your head."

Mycroft paid for every item and took them. After all, it was quite difficult to resent someone as good-hearted as Molly.

***

Mycroft was departing from Molly's shop when he heard a voice he recognized. It was the soldier accompanying Lestrade. Mycroft couldn't quite place his name — the court marshal had weirdly stuttered the foreign name.

"... and do you realize what it could mean, _Grégoire_? We could bring back past architecture! My da would be able to build a new cathedral, I'm sure of it!"

"Careful, Anderson." Lestrade's low voice whispered. "Don't give people another chance to stare."

From where Mycroft stood, it wasn't Anderson that held everyone's gaze. Even while staying silent, Lestrade exuded an effortless confidence. It was what had held Mycroft's attention when he first stepped into the Hall.

Even though every eye had been on him, Lestrade hadn't stopped or slowed down. He hadn't spared any of the courtesans a glance. He had kept his eyes fixed on the thrones. His gaze was unwavering on the Royal Family.

Mycroft had been jealous of such a stance, when he couldn't take a few steps without his bad leg aching. When he couldn't walk into a room without dying of shame. He hated subjecting all these honest people to the sight of his mask — his deficiency.

Someone pushed Mycroft out of the way, bringing him back to reality. The Prince looked around him, but he couldn't spot the golden tattoos or the tanned skin anywhere.

His stomach twisted strangely, in something resembling disappointment. Mycroft convinced himself that he was acting this way because these strangers broke through the monotony of his days. That was, without a shadow of a doubt, how Sherlock would view them.

Another passerby slowed down to stare at Mycroft. The Prince had lingered too long, he needed to get back to the castle. He brought the hood of the cloak over his eyes, covering his traits.

Mycroft berated himself quietly. He had been foolish to linger. He could not allow himself to stroll through the stands as the city folk did. He could not strike up innocent conversations with the merchants.

He had to remain quick as a shadow, forgettable. If the King or Queen learned of what he had done... Mycroft shuddered at the thought, hastened his steps. He had to be back before dinner was served so as to not attract attention once he entered the kitchens.

"My lord!" The shout came somewhere on his right. Mycroft ignored it, dropped his head. "My lord!" The shout, again, closer.

Mycroft paled under the white cloak. Someone had recognized him; peasants would laugh at their Prince for his foolishness. His disguise was nothing more than cloth; a fragile armour for a Prince.

An arm shot out of nowhere, stopping Mycroft. The hand had a strong grip; Mycroft could not free himself from it.

Defeated, Mycroft turned around. If he could maintain some form of dignity, all would not be lost.

"Oh." Lestrade's hand left his arm, leaving a burning handprint in its wake.

Lestrade's eyes had grown wide with shock. Mycroft stared into them in silence, lost. This was far from their private conversation on the balcony — etiquette could not save him here.

"My apologies." Lestrade lowered his head in a small bow. "I had not recognized you, Your Grace."

"Please don't tell..."

Somewhere on their left, Anderson's voice rose from between two stands.

"Lestrade? Where are you? I'm lost!"

Lestrade pushed a bundle into Mycroft's hands. Mycroft recognized the items he had bought at Molly's. He must have dropped them earlier, in his haste.

Lestrade disappeared between two passersby before Mycroft could thank him properly.


	4. Azure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Thursday, another chapter! This week, we have books, an encounter with our favourite Westerner and extensive talks about the sea!  
> The library scene was actually one of the first that came to me, so I hope you guys like it!

Throughout the centuries, the library had been furnished by the Kings and Queens of the North. The shelves stretched to the ceilings, some of them too high to reach.

When he was little, Mother had told Mycroft that knowledge was power. And books were the kind of knowledge too precious to let fall in anyone's hands. The King had the duty of protecting all of it and imparting wisdom where he saw fit.

The library had been built to store thousands of books in a way that took people's breaths away. It was full of cold corridors and creaking floorboards. There wasn't a carpet in sight. It made the room colder than it ought to be.

Mycroft had taken to huddling close to the chimney to warm himself up. He had brought an armchair from his rooms to be comfortable — somehow he seemed to be the first to have thought of it.

When they were younger, Mycroft and Sherlock both fit between the heavy curtains and the window. The cold seeped from the window, but they used to bring a candle with them — to light the book and to warm up.

They would spend hours pouring over tales of knights and damsels in distress. Mycroft would read and Sherlock, for once, would close his eyes and listen.

These days, Sherlock was more inclined to _experimenting_ , whatever that meant. His absence felt like a rush of wind beside Mycroft, a breath from the ghost of what Sherlock used to be. _His brother._

Mycroft shook his head and concentrated again on the book. The words were dancing in front of his eyes. Perhaps it had been too ambitious to open this book about the _Economy of the North Since King Oliver_.

Mycroft got up to search for some light reading. His fingers trailed over the different covers, disturbing dust. Mycroft walked without a definite goal, wandering away from the doors.

His steps had led him unknowingly to the West literature section. It was quite small, considering. Most of the shelves were empty, although Mycroft remembered that they used to hold books. After the disagreement, they must have been thrown away. Or burned. The idea of hundreds of books burning didn't sit well with Mycroft.

The books in this area were full of dust, much more than the others. Mycroft wondered if they had been picked up in the last twenty-seven years.

The titles were hard to make out. Mycroft chose a few books at random — itching to take them all with him, somewhere safe. He carried them back to his armchair and settled to read.

As the day wore on, Mycroft's face grew closer and closer to the book. There was a mine of information in there; history, geography and culture all tangled up. The author had obviously never been to the West, but he still taught more to Mycroft than his manuals ever had.

Mycroft wished he had brought a pen and paper with him, to write it all down. He had always memorized things quickly — quicker than his teachers expected. Still, he liked the comfort of notes — more trustworthy than any memory.

The hours passed him by without him noticing and as the daylight faded, he merely brought the book closer to his eyes. He was so caught up in his reading that he didn’t register the creak of the door opening or the heavy footsteps coming closer to the armchair.

"I understand now why you have not come down for supper." King Robert smiled slightly yet his eyes were hard on Mycroft.

The Prince rose to his feet and bowed his head.

"I did not realize the hour had grown so late. Do forgive me."

The King nodded absently; his gaze had been drawn to the book in Mycroft's hands.

"And where did you find this?" The King gave a faint smile. "It seems quite old."

"I got lost in one dusty section. I quite liked the cover." Mycroft held up the book; it had been decorated to the colour of the Western sea. It was a deep blue; _royal blue_. "What do you think the sea smells like, Father?"

Mycroft looked up from the book to see the King's face distorted with rage. It only lasted a fleeting moment, then it was gone. So fast it could have been a trick of the light.

"You should stick to economics, Son." The King's features had grown hard, _the face of a leader_. "There is no need to infuse your mind with useless things. These books are for maidens wishing to _travel_."

The King spit the last word with venom. Mycroft felt like a schoolboy being admonished. He fought the blush that threatened to take over his cheeks, his ears. He still felt warmth take over his treacherous face.

"The cook has asked after you. You will hurry to the kitchens before they clean up the pots." King Robert reached towards the books Mycroft was now holding to his chest. "Let me put these back where they belong."

His heart in his throat, Mycroft obeyed. Thankfully, his hair covered the anger glinting in his eyes. If books were knowledge, were power, what did it mean when the King ordered them burned? Was it protection or ignorance?

Mycroft left the library, shaking like a leaf. Rage suffused his mind, yet instead of giving him strength, it reduced him to a bundle of nerves. Like a thousand times before, his body betrayed him. 

Inwardly, Mycroft envied the cold fury of his mother. It detonated like thunder in the mountains, far away. Once one noticed the fire blazing in her eyes, bubbling under the surface, one usually listened to her.

Mycroft's fingers closed into a fist and he kept on walking. His stiff leg sent tendrils of pain every few steps. Mycroft forced his weight on it with cold determination. The humidity in the air always made the pain worse, but Mycroft was used to it by now. He walked on.

"Your Grace," the call came from a stretch of shadow in another corridor.

Mycroft turned towards the voice, hiding his wince at the sudden movement. His leg was aching, but he refused to put more weight on his other leg. The most important thing was his posture. _A Prince does not slouch._

"Your Grace." Lestrade appeared, the fading light from the window giving him an otherworldly air. "I was surprised by your absence at supper."

Mycroft dropped his gaze to the tiles under his feet, hiding his blush. It was probably imperceptible from this distance, with the mask covering part of his cheeks. Still, hiding his expression was a habit the Prince had difficulty losing.

"I got caught up in the library." The Prince was surprised by his own honesty; he found he wanted to share his findings with the emissary. "I discovered our collection of Western literature."

"Really?" Lestrade gave a warm smile. "Who was the author? I might have heard of them."

"Oh, I'm afraid the library did not have Western authors, merely..." Mycroft faltered. "You would find it shocking, perhaps, that our library holds nothing more than histories of your country."

"Given the lack of recent studies about the North in our libraries, I would argue we're even." Greg's smile had not shifted; he seemed happy enough to stand here, talking of nothing of importance. "Tell me, have you learned much? It must have been captivating if it kept you from your cook's cormarye. Delicious, that was."

Mycroft leaned nonchalantly against the wall behind him. His leg stopped trembling under his weight. The coolness of the stone on his back soon seeped through his clothes. At least he had not collapsed on the tiles.

"The chapter about your Western sea was inspiring." Under his mask, a smile stretched Mycroft's cheeks at the memory. "Is it truly a blue so deep it gets blurred with the colour of the sky?"

"That book sounds like poetry." Somehow, in Gregory’s mouth, it did not sound mocking. Greg stepped closer, his eyes warm and fixed on Mycroft. "But I guess the horizon is not very finite; fishermen used to say it was where souls came to their eternal rest."

Mycroft frowned but did not comment. In the North, cathedrals and churches had fallen into decay. The productivity was better these days, the Queen explained. The population did not lose entire days of work to walk to the nearest church, seeking help that would not come.

Mycroft had stopped believing in miracles shortly after his seventh birthday. Mother had tied the mask, hiding the tears, and explained. _Nothing will save you from the curse on your skin. You cannot ask anyone but yourself to bear this burden._

Mycroft had carried the words with him into his dreams. The tears had dried on his cheeks, unseen.

"You've got other shades of blue, though. Have you seen the lapis lazuli on the ring King John sent? It is the colour of the Western sky at night."

Mycroft resolved to seek out the ring inside the chest that had been left unopened. If he could not keep the book the colour of the sea, perhaps he could admire the ring the colour of dreams. He would ask one of the members of his guards to get it for him; surely no one could deny him such a small request.

"Are you quite alright, your Grace?" Greg was peering at him anxiously. "Only you seem pale."

Mycroft shook his head with a tight smile. He had stayed silent too long, and Lestrade was not the kind of man used to listening to his own voice too long.

"I am well, thank you." Mycroft looked down at his treacherous leg — it had started trembling again. "Although I should head back to my room; the hour has grown rather late."

Greg looked around them, spotting the darkness that had fallen on the world outside. His eyebrows went up in surprise.

"Let me walk with you to your room. I would not want you to collapse on the way there."

Greg stretched an arm towards Mycroft before aborting the movement. His fingers curled against his palm, retracting. Mycroft fought the urge to reach towards him in return.

Mycroft detached himself from the wall with care. His leg screamed in agony at each step. Mycroft tightened his jaw, clenched his fists and carried on.

"Are you heading towards the North Wing? I had understood that the Royal Family rooms were situated in the West Wing. The view is said to be magnificent when the sun sets."

"You were not mistaken," Mycroft answered through clenched teeth. "My room is in the North Wing. I'm the only Holmes there."

Mycroft chided himself for sounding so harsh. Yet that was the price to pay if he wanted to keep the pain from showing in his voice. Lestrade could think him rude — it would not be too far from the truth.

Mycroft could not bring himself to twist his neck to observe the Westerner's reaction. In their few conversations, he had given Mycroft more attention than most. It would be painful to watch him walk away, once the deal was done.

"Does your window have a view of the lake?" Lestrade's voice sounded cheerful, despite Mycroft's cold words. "I have promised Anderson that we will go skating before we leave."

Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks. His arm shot out, grasping Lestrade's.

"Don’t. Don't go near the lake." Mycroft stared deep into Greg's eyes, trying to infuse some of his fear there. "It’s dangerous."

"I fail to understand, Your Grace." Lestrade's smile had twisted at the edges, caught somewhere between laughter and horror. "What’s so dangerous there?"

"The ice cracks under your feet and you fall in. And once under the ice..." Mycroft shivered violently. His grip tightened on Lestrade's arm, steadying himself.

"Your Grace, are you quite alright?" Lestrade's eyes had grown wide with concern. Strangely, it was not the lake he seemed to be concerned about, but the Prince. "I fear my mentioning the lake has shaken you up. Please allow me to apologize."

"I'm quite alright." 

Mycroft's reassurance would have been more believable if his leg did not choose that moment to act up. He had lost his focus for a moment and had to clutch Lestrade's shirt in his hand to keep from falling.

"I have kept you on your feet too long." There was no appalment in Greg's voice, only concern. "Here, lean on me. We'll get you to a seat."

They progressed slowly. Greg's arm wound around Mycroft's waist, supporting him. Mycroft let his hand be held, hiding how relieved he felt. The shame of acting so vulnerably would come soon enough, and he intended to bask in the sudden feeling of _safety_.

"This— this is my door."

"There you go." With his right shoulder, Lestrade opened the bedroom.

Inside, someone was already waiting, her shadow drawing shapes on the purple curtains. Faith straightened up at their entrance, raising a single eyebrow.

"I'll go, my lord. Call me when you're—" Faith gave the slightest hesitation. "ready."

Mycroft's entire body was suffused with shame. He freed himself from Lestrade's hold, standing on his uncertain leg. The pain was a distant sensation, blocked out by the utter sense of humiliation.

"No, don't leave. Master Lestrade was only..." Mycroft's words stuttered out then stopped. He could think of nothing that did not sound suspicious. A Prince of the North had no business conspiring with a Westerner, even less leading him to his private quarters.

"I offered to walk His Grace to his room since he felt unsteady."

"Yes." Mycroft agreed stiffly. "You may leave us now."

Lestrade bowed before disappearing behind the door.

Faith observed the Prince in silence. Mycroft resisted the urge to hide behind his hands. He had not acted badly, yet he could not shake the sense of having disappointed her. It itched under his skin. Every excuse and explanation he could think of seemed even more incriminating.

"I have brought your supper to you. Mrs Hudson was ready to search the whole castle for you, young master." Faith fixed the Prince with a hard stare. "It does not do well to skip meals, regardless of what the... distractions may be."

Mycroft walked to the bed, half-sitting, half-collapsing on it.

"If you are referring to the afternoon I spent reading in the library, I'm afraid I have to agree. I should have noticed the sun going down sooner."

"I am not hinting at anything." Faith hid a smile in the corner of her mouth. "That foreigner was kind, making sure you made it to your room."

Mycroft nodded without answering, hoping his lack of answer would put a stop to any further inquiry. Faith set a cold plate next to the Prince, respecting his silence.

Once Mycroft was finished with his meal, she set to unlace the laces on his sleeves — Mycroft would manage the rest.

"The King and Queen are set in their ways." Faith kept her eyes trained on Mycroft's sleeves, avoiding his questioning gaze. "They will need someone to show them a new way of seeing Westerners."

"Are you suggesting that I—"

"Yes, you, you silly Prince." Faith chuckled deep in her throat. "If you allowed this boy to help you when you were vulnerable, you are already wiser than they give you credit for. Besides, your foreign boy will need some support."

Mycroft sputtered, unable to focus on one line of reasoning. Any other noble would have already dismissed Faith — in fact, she probably would have been thrown out of the house long ago, because of her insolence. But Mycroft was used to her ways — and he liked how honest she was. Still, it was a lot to take in.

Faith smiled knowingly, patting his cheek. "You sleep on that idea. You'll see I may not be wrong."

She left without waiting for an answer. Mycroft looked at the candle burning on his bedside table. He stared at it until it was snuffed out by a breath of wind.


	5. Ashes

The next morning, Mycroft woke up before the sunrise. He got dressed on his own — despite what Faith would say on the matter, he _could_ manage simple materials and lacing. One sleeve ended up falling over his hand while the other, inexplicably, stopped at his wrist but Mycroft was hardly going to stop at insignificant details like that. After all, no one would notice. The only upside of the mask was that it brought everyone’s attention to it — and away from anything else.

The corridors were mostly empty, as the sun was still hours from rising. The chambermaids had not even started re-awakening the embers in the castle’s chimneys. At that hour, the stone was cold and damp, as if the very humidity of the lake had infiltrated the walls.

Unfortunately, not everyone was asleep. Cathair, the captain of the Prince’s guard, was standing at attention near the door when Mycroft emerged. Mycroft inwardly cursed his luck — some other guard might have given in to temptation and closed his eyes for a few moments, but never Cathair.

He resigned himself to his fate and started walking to the library. Almost-silent steps echoed his own, betraying Cathair’s presence. Mycroft sighed. At least Cathair was the least likely to succumb to gossip-mongering. Despite the Prince’s very suspicious behaviour, Mycroft could trust him to keep this morning’s expedition to himself.

In truth, Mycroft was up to nothing wrong. He merely wanted to _test a theory_ — although only Sherlock would have put it this way.

***

When the King and the Queen arrived to eat their breakfast, Mycroft was already waiting for them. His hands, darkened with ash, stayed hidden behind his back.

"Mother. Father." Mycroft kneeled for their blessing. The Queen approached and put a hand on his head.

"Son. Have you been waiting for us all this while?" The King, slightly out of breath, sat down.

"Yes." Mycroft drew himself up, stretching to his full height. "I have come to offer myself as the intermediary between the Westerners and yourself."

"And who appointed you?" the Queen asked, unruffled.

"I appointed myself," Mycroft answered coldly. "I spent some time learning the culture and the uses of the Western world. I have also gained the trust of one of the foreigners."

"Yes, so we've been told." King Robert kept his dark eyes on Mycroft, wondering. "A most surprising _friendship_."

"And yet it could prove quite useful," Mycroft argued. "They would be more amenable if I was the one negotiating with them. I could get them to sign a satisfactory alliance with the North if they trust me. I believe the West has much to offer us."

"Do you?" The Queen had sat on the King's right. Their hands were loosely joined above the table.

"We could begin trading with them again. The North hosts more stone than we can use while their entire territory is devoid of it. At the same time, they have clear water and fish, sheep and linen, sand and glass."

The Queen conceded the point with a slight nod.

"You will be allowed in the Audience. But keep in mind that you are neither King nor Queen, therefore the decisions are ours to make. Your role will be to arbitrate the talks, nothing more."

Mycroft bowed his head in acquiescence before taking his leave.

When Mycroft opened the door, he found Sherlock on the other side of it. His expression was kept carefully blank. Mycroft peered down at his brother.

"Were you listening in on us, Sherlock? You know a Prince should not stoop so low as to be sneaking around in his own castle."

Sherlock scoffed. "I did not ask you for your approval, _brother_. And I seem to remember a _Prince_ should not walk around his own castle with dirty hands."

Mycroft looked down at his hands. He had forgotten about the ash; all he had cared about at the time was retrieving the last of the Western books. The ones his Father had thrown into the chimney of the library.

This morning, Mycroft had retrieved a book cover — the leather had protected it from the fire somewhat. It was now burning a hole in his pocket. It used to be blue; it was now dark with ash and half torn.

Mycroft put a dirty hand in his pocket, clenching the leather in his hand.

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed.

"It's Prince William," Sherlock quipped, his head raised in defiance.

When Sherlock circled Mycroft to escape through a corridor, Mycroft did not stop him. He suspected his sudden absence in Sherlock's life had been hard to accept. It had created a rift between them, a distance that Mycroft did not know how to cross. Every time he stretched out a hand, Sherlock took two steps away from him.

Mycroft sighed. He did not have time to run after Sherlock — and his brother would not want him to anyway. If he was to help with the Audience, he needed to be prepared.

Mycroft decided to go down to see Sherlock's master, the one who had also taught him. His hair was entirely grey, a sign of wisdom in children's eyes.

Maximillian had been given his own study room, several doors down from the library. At the sound of the door, he sighed. Mycroft turned towards the sound, finding his old master sitting on an armchair, his back to him.

"Close the door, will you? My bones are freezing with all the cold air you're letting enter." Maximillian made a circular motion with his hand. "Tell me, what does the Eldest Prince need with his archaic teacher? Are you feeling nostalgic?"

Mycroft smiled, closing the door neatly behind him. His master had not lost his talents; he could still identify any student by the sound of their knock.

"I brought Mrs Hudson's blend."

Maximillian turned his head sharply. His gaze was caught somewhere between gratitude and suspicion.

"What do you want, my boy?"

"I want to take part in the negotiations with the West." Mycroft brought the drink into his master's hand, then calmly met his astonished gaze. "And for that, I need to know everything about the West and their ways. I was hoping for your help."

Maximillian considered Mycroft with wide eyes. He took a deep swallow of the drink in his hand.

"If you're serious about that, you made a good choice in bringing me this. It will at least take Mrs Hudson's brew to make me participate in this madness."

"I tried learning through the library." Mycroft concealed the burst of warm anger clenching his chest. "The books have been _burned_."

"Why do you believe I could help you? I have already taught you all you needed to know."

"According to the King and the Queen," Mycroft added with a twist of his lips. "At the time, they expected the West to close their borders forever."

"You have become quite good at the art of parley, I see," Maximillian sighed. "Wait here. Some books may have ended up in my personal collection by mistake."

Mycroft kept his expression carefully blank, his eyes unmoving. Maximillian was afraid of being accused of being a traitor — he had stolen from the Royal Library, after all. Any self-respecting Holmes Prince would report him.

Fortunately for them both, Mycroft was far from the perfect Prince. He had himself retrieved a burnt cover this morning — and he would have stolen the book itself if it hadn’t been beyond repair.

Maximillian came back, his feet silent on the creaking wood. His small frame was almost completely hidden behind the pile of books in his hands.

"Here, let me." Mycroft reached for the books, transferring them quickly to the table.

"Ever the helpful student." Maximillian smiled; he almost looked proud.

Mycroft looked away, his chest tightening with something akin to shame. He hardly deserved the praise, after all — he had never been particularly studious, and despite his master’s best efforts, he had yet to achieve anything remarkable.

Together, they combed through Maximillian's collection. Mycroft gasped when he came across a book written by a Westerner. Robin Armand. Mycroft committed the name to his memory, even once they discovered he was nothing more than a poet.

By the end of the morning, Mycroft's head was buzzing with names, dates, facts. Maximillian added ideas to the books — sometimes disagreeing completely with the historians.

"That _Muriel_." He muttered under his breath, his chin quivering with indignation. "Already back in school, he had a terrible memory. And to think that someone agreed to print this nonsense!"

Mycroft swallowed his smile each time — yet it moved his mask in a way his master had come to recognize.

As they both settled in front of the dictionary they had kept for last, the door swung open.

"I have them!" Sherlock rushed into the room, waving a paper proudly in the air. "I have th- What are you doing here? He's not _your_ teacher anymore!"

Mycroft straightened, his hand dropping the quill. Ink splashed across the page, onto Mycroft's left hand.

"My apologies, Sherlock. I will not detain your master any longer."

As Mycroft prepared to leave, Maximillian stopped him with a hand on his arm. He ignored Sherlock's tapping feet against the wooden floor and looked at Mycroft.

"Take the dictionary with you, my boy. Even a few stilted sentences might be greeted with newly-found respect." Maximillian squeezed Mycroft's arm, his gaze affectionate. "Now you take care, yes? Go and eat some broth. Don't let Mrs Hudson search for you through the whole castle again."

Maximillian pushed the dictionary into Mycroft's hands then, after a slight hesitation, he added the poetry.

"Food for the soul," he said as an explanation. Mycroft ignored the wink directed at him — he couldn't shake off the heat of Sherlock’s glare burning holes into his skull.

As Mycroft left, he heard Sherlock excitedly explaining his latest discoveries concerning horses. A wave of sadness and something deeper, sweet and sour, rushed through Mycroft.

The door closed, drowning out the sounds of his brother's voice.


	6. Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo <3 This week's chapter is much longer and has one of my favourites scenes in it, so I hope you'll like it!

Once he had hidden the books beneath the loose stone in the wall of his bedroom, Mycroft went down to the kitchens.

"Oh, there you are, dear! I was worrying that you had let yourself starve to death!" Mrs Hudson approached. Mycroft was convinced that if it were not for the mask, she would be pinching his cheeks already. "Now go on, sit down while I fetch you something to eat."

The kitchens had turned silent when Mycroft arrived, but soon they were bustling with activity again. Every assistant cook neatly avoided Mycroft's corner of the kitchen, walking in wide circles around his chair.

Only the kitchen maid, Maggie, was brave enough — or silly enough, some would say — to approach the Ice Prince. She gave him a feeble smile as she passed near him. Once he had taken off the mask, however, even she would avoid his corner of the kitchens.

Mrs Hudson pushed some gruel into Mycroft's hands, tutting until he had consumed it all. Mycroft kept his back to her while he ate. In his mind echoed the Queen’s warnings from years ago — _never take off the mask, don't let anyone see the horrors there_.

Mrs Hudson was better off without knowing the horrors beneath the mask. What her mind conjured would be less traumatizing.

Mycroft himself always turned away from the mirrors in the castle. The last time he had laid eyes on his face was when they took measurements for the first mask. The memory was hazy, bringing only flashes and a vague sense of dread. As he grew, the Royal Inventor came back to sketch new versions of the mask — and each time, Mycroft stared resolutely at the wall, ignoring the mirror or the expression on the Inventor’s face.

Once Mycroft had re-tied the mask, Mrs Hudson came back with a bowl. One by one, she waved the various contents — berries, apples, pears, plums — in front of him, jabbering about Princes needing to keep their strength, until Mycroft reached for one at random.

"Fruits are rare, these days," Mycroft protested. "This would be of better use for our guests or—"

"Nonsense! The nobles have more food at home than they can consume, and these Westerners have orchards full of apples."

Mycroft let her fuss around him for a few minutes before getting up. He would rather be long gone before Sherlock made his way to the kitchens. Shortly after dinner, Sherlock would come here and charm his way into eating more dessert. Mrs Hudson would then be busy cooking sweets for her favourite Prince. 

She had always adored the little Prince; calling him Sherlock and letting him play around undisturbed in the kitchens — oftentimes when he was supposed to be upstairs, learning protocol.

It was the curls and the pinchable cheeks, Mycroft thought. Sherlock looked like a little puppy, still. Mrs Hudson couldn’t help but drench him in love. With Mycroft, there was always a sense of etiquette holding her back.

Mycroft thanked the cook — Maggie pressed an apple into his palm with a smile — before climbing the stairs towards the North Wing. The audience would happen fairly soon, and he had an entire language to learn. The Westerners knew the Northern language, yet speaking in their dialect would surely make them feel more included.

He crossed the corridor next to the dining room at the same time as the doors opened. Mycroft winced and hid in an alcove nearby. Usually, he spent less time in the kitchens and managed to get back to his room while the others were eating.

A rush of dark curls ran past the alcove. Mycroft held his breath, but Sherlock ran past him without sparing him a glance. He did not slow down as he sped down the corridor. Mycroft could hear the Queen shouting after him. The thunder in her voice made Mycroft want to disappear into the wall, or at least to become as insignificant as a marble statue.

Mycroft’s grip around the apple had turned viselike. He exhaled slowly and rolled it in his palms. It was a glistening red, only a few shades lighter than blood. The comparison sent a shudder tumbling the full length of his spine. He dropped his arm to his side, hiding the apple from sight.

Outside the alcove, voices were raised.

"—a foolish boy! He—"

"Philippe, Philippe, please." Lestrade's voice had turned hard and commanding. Anderson fell silent at once.

"You'll have to forgive Prince William." The King sounded tired. "He did not mean what he said."

"Oh no, he meant every word and no doubt about it," Lestrade replied, although there was no trace of anger in his voice. "He acted like a child, and children are always honest. I’ll go after him, shall I?"

Lestrade's brisk steps sounded across the corridor, louder and louder in Mycroft's ears. As his shadow touched the alcove, Mycroft shuffled a bit more towards the light. His stiff leg made his foot land heavily against the stone.

Gregory had stopped. Mycroft could hear his even breaths just on the other side of the alcove — the rhythm of it was strangely soothing. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

"Sherlock?"

Mycroft resigned himself to being seen. He stepped away from the stone in a rush of cloth, towards the corridor.

"Wrong brother," he joked feebly, forcing a smile on his lips.

He had expected to see some amount of surprise and disappointment in the other’s gaze as he realized that it was only Mycroft. Instead, Gregory’s eyes seemed to glitter with warmth and joy.

"Were you hiding?" Lestrade's voice was as soft as silk, his gaze running over Mycroft’s form. "Did you steal this apple?"

"I did _not_ steal," Mycroft objected. His voice sounded petulant inside of self-righteous; it reminded Mycroft of his younger self — a child hiding in corners. Heat suffused his cheeks.

"Alright, alright." Gregory held his hands up playfully. "Would you help me find your brother? He's disappeared somewhere through there, but I might get lost before I find him."

Mycroft smiled. He slipped the apple back in his pocket.

"There is every chance that he has escaped to the kitchens. Our cook spoils him; he is probably already enjoying some sweets." Mycroft was rewarded for his efforts by full-throated laughter. "May I ask what my brother has done this time?"

Gregory huffed a laugh. "Really, it was nothing. Anderson overreacted. He takes insults to his intellect close to heart."

"This way," Mycroft indicated the stairs on their left. "Sherlock has developed an inner talent to irritate others."

"Oh, he's truly dedicated to his cause, now."

"He has had plenty of practice."

"What a loyal brother you make, allowing him to rehearse with you."

"Quite," Mycroft tamped down his smile now that they had reached the kitchens. "Shall we?"

Maggie considered the two of them with wide eyes, her mouth moving soundlessly. Behind her, the sauce cook and the fruiter exchanged worried glances.

"Something wrong with my cooking?" Mrs Hudson asked in a loud voice — without managing to hide the tremor in it.

"Of course not, Mrs Hudson. We were merely looking for—" Mycroft stopped as he noticed Lestrade had moved.

Gregory was now kneeling next to Redbeard, petting him. Sherlock was sitting on the other side of the dog, his downcast eyes trained on its red fur.

"Yes, he came barreling in here a few minutes ago," Mrs Hudson smiled. "The other Westerner upset him dreadfully, I'm afraid."

From what Mycroft had understood, it was rather the other way around, but he abstained from commenting. In Mrs Hudson's eyes, Sherlock was completely incapable of doing wrong. And Mycroft was glad that someone had blind faith in his brother, although he would never openly admit it.

After a few moments of silence, Lestrade and Sherlock came back towards them. Sherlock was frowning, but he held Gregory's hand obediently. Mycroft tried not to gape — the movement was rather painful for his jaw.

They came back through the corridors and up the stairs — Lestrade and Sherlock, Mycroft trailing behind them.

Sherlock was recounting an adventure, something with knights and black-scaled dragons. Lestrade laughed and gasped throughout the tale, delighting Sherlock.

Once Sherlock had been delivered to the King — enduring his public scolding in silence — the Queen turned to Mycroft. Her sharp eye took in his ruffled appearance and his rumpled clothes.

"You shall eat with us tonight," she declared. "Lady Smallwood and her husband have graced us with their presence and they have wondered at your absence earlier." She then added in a furious whisper: " _And find something suitable to wear before then!_ "

Mycroft nodded and slipped away from the crowd as fast as he could. He had never liked the Court; everyone was always either openly staring or avoiding his gaze. He dreaded the prospect of an entire evening in their company.

"Sherlock reacted better than I expected."

Mycroft turned startled eyes towards Gregory. He hadn’t realized that he had been followed down the corridor.

"Thank you," he said, keeping his eyes on the floor, following invisible patterns with his gaze. "Sherlock often feels... misunderstood. He isolates himself, but he suffers from it. I'm glad you were able to see past it."

"He looked lonely, sitting there with the kitchen dog." Lestrade gave a half-shrug like it was nothing. "Besides, I wasn’t bored. He had a lot of opinions about the deterioration of corpses."

Mycroft let out a strangled laugh. "You will have to forgive him. The young prince has peculiar interests."

"That he has," Gregory agreed with a smile. "Now, I better get back to them before Sherlock manages to offend Anderson again."

Lestrade bowed and left. Mycroft kept looking at him, his broad shoulders and his golden tattoos circling around his bare forearms. The linen of his doublet certainly hugged his frame in a flattering manner.

Once Gregory had turned the corner, Mycroft shook himself. He had managed to spend an entire conversation with a Westerner without learning anything new about the West. He would have to pay more attention from now on.

Mycroft walked back to his rooms. Once they caught sight of his mask, the gentry stepped away from him like waves rolling away from shore.

***

"Come on, Mycroft!” Sherlock was pulling on Mycroft's hand with all his might, hoping to guide him out of the path. “You're so boring!"

Mycroft looked down at his little brother with a frown. It occurred to him that there was something not quite right; Sherlock's hair had not looked so short in a long time. The thought went and flew away like a butterfly. Mycroft let it go with a puff of breath.

"The ice is not safe, Sherlock," Mycroft answered. He had the vague sense of having said this before.

Sherlock slipped from his grip and ran on the ice. He jumped on it, his expression gleeful.

"Oh, you're right Mycroft! This is very dangerous!" Sherlock fell onto the ice like a street performer. "I'm dying!"

"Very funny, little brother. Now come back, before the ice breaks." Sweat was trickling down Mycroft's nose, collecting between his skin and the mask.

"Well, catch me then!" Sherlock ran towards the centre of the ice, laughing.

Mycroft carefully put his weight on the ice, testing it. After a few steps, a few cracks resounded in the silence. Mycroft held his breath and progressed slowly towards Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft cried.

The sound barely left his mouth before being swallowed up by the cold. Sherlock did not turn around. He kept on running, his arms moving up and down like a bird. His silhouette disappeared in the white mist surrounding them.

Mycroft walked on blindly. He had lost all sense of direction; his world only consisted of light and cold.

And still, the ice cracked under Mycroft's weight. It sounded like a roar of thunder in the quiet. Mycroft was panting, his feet slipped on the ice. Under his clothes, his stiff leg was burning up.

All at once, the mist parted in front of him, revealing the other side of the lake. Sherlock was standing there. He was waving towards Mycroft. The sight of him, safe and sound beside the trees, took Mycroft’s breath away. It left his chest in a cloud of smoke — white against the pale sky.

"Sherlock, stay where you are!" Mycroft cried, hoping his brother would hear him.

The words had barely left his mouth before the ice gave way under his feet. Mycroft pitched forwards, his stiff leg falling first into the frosty water. Mycroft wrestled against it before his arms went numb. He could feel his body sink deeper into the lake, and he was powerless to stop it.

Mycroft then looked desperately across the lake, to his little brother. At least Sherlock was out of harm’s way. The thought echoed in his mind, bringing a semblance of peace.

Water closed over his head. Mycroft entered a realm of darkness. He kept his eyes wide open but the lake was deep and dark. Mycroft kicked with his good leg; his head collided against the ice, hard.

He was trapped.

Mycroft inhaled icy water. _So this is the end._ It filled his insides. _I am to be turned into a frozen statue._

A voice was singing, nearby. Mycroft turned to it, tears in his eyes. His mind expected his mother to appear, singing a lullaby to soothe him in his last moments.

The voice got closer. It came from a spectre. The creature was approaching fast, its green arms outstretched. Its icy fingers splayed against the mask.

Mycroft gasped a plea, delivering desperate bubbles into the water.

**Do not fear.** The voice came from within, from the lake, from everything. **This is your destiny.**

Fingers ran against the back of Mycroft's head. Mycroft jerked away, only to collide against the ice again. There was no way out.

The creature took the mask away with a flick of its fingers. It didn't flinch away from the sight, being a monster itself. Its hand brushed against Mycroft's cheek.

**Come and free us.**

"Mycroft!"

Mycroft turned his head, searching for the source of the sound. The creature lost its grip on him.

**Free us.** There were tears in its eyes.

"Mycroft!" The door shook on its hinges under the force of the knock.

The Prince startled awake. His face was dripping in sweat yet Mycroft felt as cold as if he had actually fallen to the bottom of the lake. Mycroft put his hand on the cold mask — convincing himself it was still there and not in the bed of the lake.

The dream was ebbing away, details becoming blurry. The fright of drowning would not leave; an old fear clinging to his bones.

Another knock resounded on the door. Mycroft jumped towards it, his hand grasping for the handle.

"You are late for supper, young master." Faith regarded Mycroft severely, arms crossed. "Your shirt is all creased. What did you do to it, you mongrel?"

"I fell asleep while reading," Mycroft admitted, sheepish.

Faith shook her head. She would have done a good show of being exasperated if it weren’t for the small smile tugging at her lips.

"We’ll have to dress you up properly for your supper." Faith chose a purple and red tunic with gold thread. "This will fit you nicely."

***

Mycroft arrived for supper as everyone was sitting down. They rose again in a rustle of cloth, like a breeze going through treetops. Mycroft stepped through the room, his hand clenched tightly at his side. He waited for the backhanded comments, for the little sneers of distaste. None came.

Mycroft risked a glance at the table on the right, holding his breath. 

The gentry were looking at him, staring as usual. What had changed was their expressions. Mycroft could only perceive stupor in their eyes. After all, it was a rare sight to see the elder Prince in the dining room outside of the Feasts and other national celebrations. And even then, his presence was met with scowls and half-veiled disdain. Mycroft would have to thank Faith later — her choice of raiment had certainly played a part in this change of heart.

Mycroft remembered with a jolt Faith's advice. As she left him at the door, she had stopped him with a hand on his arm and a whispered _smile_. The mask shrouded half of his mouth in shadow, nearly concealing the gesture. Mycroft merely stretched his lips wider.

A movement near the doors brought Mycroft’s attention. There, among the guards, Cathair was smiling back at him — it was only a quirk of lips but it was so unexpected that it shocked Mycroft into moving.

After some agonizingly slow steps, Mycroft reached the royal table. The chair next to Sherlock had been left unattended, waiting for him. Mycroft squared his shoulders and sat down. As he did so, the whole room followed him, a hundred leaves descending to the ground.

The King stood up to give the traditional speech. Mycroft let the words wash over him like waves. His hand was shaking where it rested on the table. Mycroft hid it on his lap, although he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.

When the servants arrived with their meal, presenting it to the King first, Mycroft turned his eyes to the guests. The lords were seated near King Robert, on the far left of the room. Mycroft recognized their faces, their warm smiles and their cold eyes.

Mycroft's eyes took in the rest of the room. The gentry seated near the doors, the women next to their husbands. Mycroft's gaze stopped with surprise on Lestrade.

Gregory was seated on the far right, the chair closest to Mycroft. His warm gaze was already fixed on the Prince. As Mycroft watched, he gave a charming smile. Mycroft answered with a smile of his own, his lips stretching without his accord.

Gregory's attention was stolen by Anderson exclaiming over the chandeliers. Mycroft kept watching as he engaged in a short conversation with the other Westerner. Gregory's hands moved uselessly over the table, moving this way and that. Mycroft wondered what he was saying; he had never been good with reading lips.

A kick to his shin derailed his thoughts. Beside him, Sherlock was gloating.

"Did that soldier enchant you, Mycroft? Your eyes have not left him."

Mycroft fought against the blush blossoming on his cheeks. "Nothing of the sort, I assure you, little brother."

Sherlock frowned at the appellation but he kept talking. "You have barely touched your food."

"The meal has scarcely begun, brother dear. There is nothing tragic in taking one's time to eat." 

Mycroft brushed aside the fact that his plate contained nothing. His brother very well knew that the King and Queen had forbidden Mycroft from eating at the royal table. His mask made it an _unsavoury experience_ , to use the Queen’s words. 

It was a painful reminder, and a jab of Sherlock’s that he rather wanted to ignore.

"The two of you seem—" Sherlock took a mouthful of his drink. "Intimate."

Mycroft turned startled eyes to the room, confirming that no other soul had heard the words.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed.

"So you deny that you were making eyes at that Westerner, then?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, wishing for strength. He did not have the patience for his brother's foolishness.

"It is of the utmost importance that I understand them well if we want to turn this visit into an opportunity." Mycroft turned a hard stare to Sherlock. "And that is _all_ I will say on this matter."

Sherlock kept silent for the rest of the meal, which was no small feat. Mycroft felt nothing but disappointment, though. The sight of his little brother, younger still, standing alone near the lake haunted him.


	7. Moondust

At the end of the meal, Mycroft watched the guests trickle out of the room. Around them, servants were appearing, silently waiting for the royal family to leave. They would work tirelessly until well into the night, cleaning and arranging the room for the next day.

The King and Queen stood up, followed by Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock hastened down the corridor, eager to get away from his brother. Mycroft watched him go with a twinge of his heart then turned the other way, towards the North Wing.

After a few minutes at a brisk pace, every part of his bad leg seemed close to agony, and he rested his weight against the cold stone of the walls for a moment. Out of habit, his eyes tracked the view through the windows. He saw the dark forms of the sentinels guarding the castle’s entrance. Beyond them, the gardens stretched, the trees cutting mysterious shapes on the grass below. The entire area was cloaked in shadow, but Mycroft knew it like the back of his hand, having spent many hours daydreaming in the low branches of the oak tree there and recognizing the shapes of every bush and every statue.

A movement caught his attention. Further down the path leading to the town, he spotted a trail of white. Mycroft leaned forwards in a futile attempt to see better. After a moment, clouds parted above and moonlight shone down.

It was a white horse peacefully marching on the paved steps. The rider seemed as unconcerned as his horse, his head moving this way and that as he admired the statues in the garden. Mycroft squinted; this looked like Gregory's profile. His suspicion was confirmed when the wind played at his cloak and Mycroft realized that it carried the coat of arms of the West — three silver stars on a blue sea.

Gregory turned around, staring blankly at the castle. Mycroft held his breath and ducked his head, hoping and dreading the moment these brown eyes found his own. Except, Gregory’s gaze passed over Mycroft’s window without noticing him. Mycroft exhaled, a mixture of relief and disappointment rising in his throat.

Mycroft stayed at the window for some time. He could make out the silhouettes of town folk walking up and down the roads. The cold air washed over his flushed skin, soothing his mind.

With a sigh, Mycroft straightened from his slouch and stretched. He started walking, and on a whim, he turned away from the direction of his room. At night, no one would recognize his face or his clothes. It felt like decades since Mycroft had last been outside, breathing in the night air.

Mycroft marched down the corridor, his steps brisk. It seemed the purple tunic had given him worlds of confidence and he intended to use them. This wasn’t him _sneaking out_. No, this time, the Prince was using the main doors.

The guards recognized Mycroft's mask in the darkness. They let their weapons fall back at their side, their features tightening as they bowed their heads.

Mycroft gave a nod and kept on walking. He remembered rushing down these stairs as a child, Sherlock's messy curls before him... Mycroft blinked. No, that was impossible. Too many years separated the two brothers, Sherlock had still been in his wet nurse’s care when Mycroft had become a man.

Mycroft frowned, his steps faltering. Yet the more he thought about it, the less he was able to remember. The memory was foggy; it felt like immersing oneself in muddy water.

The biting wind colliding with his skin chased away the sensation. Mycroft shivered and clenched his jaw. He realized that in his haste, earlier, he had forgotten his cloak.

Mycroft wandered into the town, looking upwards. The sky had lost the lovely colours of dawn; only streaks of purple remained. Mycroft inhaled deeply. It felt like breathing in entire universes, Nature itself.

The sound of hooves on cobbles came from far away; it got louder as the horse approached. Mycroft stepped towards the houses on his right, his heart beating fast. He had heard of more than one accident involving a horse and an inattentive passerby. The golden lace on his tunic may shine in the moonlight, but it was no excuse for carelessness.

The rider reined in his horse and stopped. Even in the darkness, Mycroft recognized the sandy cloak and the blue coat of arms upon it.

"Lestrade," he called out.

Greg dismounted in one fluid movement, landing on his feet with a soft thud. Despite the darkness, Mycroft could still make out the luminous grin stretching his mouth.

"Your Highness," Lestrade answered. He bowed low. "Are you too in the habit of midnight strolls?"

"Alas, I have not wandered thus in a long time. But so far, it has proved relaxing."

"Everything is so different here." Lestrade looped the rein around his arm and started walking towards the castle. Mycroft followed, entranced. "In Duskant, I can barely go ten miles before my horse's hooves sink into some warm sand."

Greg looked to Mycroft, waiting for some approbation or answer. His eyes were darker still in the darkness. Mycroft could no longer tell the pupil from the iris. It was quite magnetic.

"Quite," Mycroft answered, distracted.

"And how did you manage ten steps without shivering to death?" Lestrade eyed Mycroft's shirtsleeves and gave an exaggerated shiver. "Is it considered cowardice to go out with a cloak around here?"

"I merely forgot it." Mycroft smiled. "I _do_ own a cloak."

"Ah, one meagre cloak! Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

Despite himself, Mycroft chuckled. Lestrade joined him. The sound of their laughter echoed in the quiet night. Mycroft fancied for a moment that the world had paused to listen to them.

"I was— surprised to see you at supper." Lestrade paused. "I rather thought you never attended them."

"I was reminded that my presence was crucial to the family being viewed as a unit."

Lestrade stayed silent. He bit at the inside of his mouth, his face set in deep contemplation. Mycroft kept quiet at his side, his boots scraping the road and making the dust fly in great swirls.

"I read a poem by Robin Armand earlier." Mycroft had let his control slip away and had babbled the first idea that came to his mind, in an effort to draw the silence at bay. But as soon as he started, he regretted his words — they felt foolish and hopeful, making him sound like a schoolboy boasting about his first sword fight.

"Oh, that’s one of my favourite authors! What did you think of it?" Mycroft turned his eyes to Gregory, but he could detect no lie in his features — the kind, silly man genuinely wanted to know.

"Well, I—" 

Mycroft gathered his thoughts. To be honest, his knowledge of the Western language was so poor that a lot of the metaphors had been completely lost on him. After a moment, he spoke again: 

"I liked the rhythm of it and the allusions to the sea, although I admit that I couldn’t understand the title." Mycroft repeated the foreign word and continued: "It wasn’t in any of the dictionaries we own."

In reality, it was only one dictionary, and quite old at that, but Mycroft had no wish to admit that. Lestrade had already had a glimpse at how dismal the library’s Western collection was, it was quite enough.

"Oh, well that’s a bit difficult to translate in one word. I’d say it means ‘born wanderer’."

Gregory looked unsure at his improvised translation but Mycroft nodded solemnly. It made the poem make a lot more sense, now that he knew what kind of story the poet had tried to tell.

"Do you think— " Mycroft’s question was swallowed by the harsh wind — it whipped at his face, pushing the freezing mask closer to his skin.

"Yes?" Lestrade's voice was silky in the night — it brought a shiver up Mycroft's back. "Oh but you're shaking. C'mere."

_Was he offering a— a hug?_ Mycroft turned wide eyes to Lestrade, a rebuttal already on his lips. He was used to the cold of the night, seeping into his bones. A million other excuses were piling up on his tongue, yet the simple truth remained that he refused to consider the consequences if he accepted the embrace — if he dared to step closer.

But Lestrade was merely stepping aside, offering his mount’s warmth.

"Icarus is the best companion for chilly nights." Lestrade gave out a hesitant smile.

It was the smile that decided Mycroft. As far as he could see, the man had never been anything less than perfectly confident. To see him so unsure was a rare sight indeed.

"Perhaps you are right," Mycroft whispered as he slipped between Lestrade and his horse. It seemed irreverent, somehow, to speak any louder. The darkness around them called for murmurs and confessions.

Icarus was quiet. It huffed a sigh as Mycroft pressed against its grey flank but otherwise did not derail from its path. Its hooves echoed loudly in the sleepy town.

"It was me and my brother’s favourite story as kids, that poem. Ma must have told it a thousand times, it was the only thing that got us to quiet down." Gregory huffed out a laugh. "Even after all these years, I know it by heart."

"Would you recite it for me?" Mycroft’s words rushed out of him. He braced himself for a derisive snort, something about them having grown out of children’s tales.

Instead, Gregory smiled and started speaking in the Western language, his voice following the rhythm of the poem, up and down. Still, he translated every line as he went on so that Mycroft could follow along.

" _A strange child, born on the world’s coldest winter, near a brook_

_With skin pale as the moon and frail limbs_

_His opal eyes held the faraway look_

_of a man longing for the sea._

_He grew up, his mind full of dreams and his pockets always empty_

_For every fish he caught, he immediately set it free_

_At dusk, he came back empty-handed but with sand aplenty_

_Oh, he was not made to be a fisherman._ "

Lestrade waited for the space of a breath, turned his eyes to Mycroft, then went on : 

" _He found love, and with her golden arms around him like an anchor_

_He looked ‘round, at the spring sky above, and laughed_

_Still, at dawn, he was the first to reach the shore_

_Waves landed at his feet, greeting him like a long-lost lover_

_As the sun rose high in the sky, the seagulls called to him_

_— away, away!_

_And at night the stars mocked him, for he had not moved_

_— a fish too scared to swim, they said._ "

Another pause, lasting just long enough for Mycroft to wonder if Gregory had grown bored, then : 

" _He went back to his love each day, stayed by her side_

_Until the stillness clawed at his throat and crawled under his skin_

_He glanced out the window, his reflection stared back_

_His heart grew heavy, he carried it with him_

_One night, he slipped out, his feet found the right track_

_His heart grew heavy, he cast it aside_

_Moonlight shone on his translucent skin as he sank beneath the waves,_

_The entire village gathered ‘round the lady in mourning_

_In her hands, there his heart lay._ "

Mycroft shuddered at the last line. When he had first discovered the poem, he hadn’t understood the ending — he had naively believed that it ended with the wanderer and his lady reunited and _happy_. Now, the crushing sensation that came with the truth only broke when Gregory turned to him, his gaze soft and soothing.

Silence washed over them but it wasn’t the stilted, crushing quiet of before. This time, Mycroft relaxed into it. There would be time later for them to talk of the poem, of its meanings, its themes. For now, sharing it was enough.

"Thank you," Mycroft murmured.

"Is it always so calm?" Lestrade asked after a beat; his voice had softened too.

"It becomes busier in the morning when the merchants arrive. But for now, everyone is sleeping."

"I don't remember ever hearing a silence so complete," Greg admitted in a whisper. "In Duskant, the crowds stretch out to the sea, always moving. As soon as some fall asleep, others wake up and start their day."

Mycroft turned horrified eyes at his companion. "And how does one endure such endless noise? I have never heard of anything more terrifying."

Greg shrugged, careless. "It is not as bad as what you imagine. It's lively."

Mycroft nodded without really understanding. He had never pegged any crowd as being lively without meaning it as an insult. Still, he waited, his eyes never leaving Gregory’s profile. Greg seemed to be considering invisible crowds in front of him with a soft smile.

"When you're down there, in the streets... It’s like being part of something bigger. You've got fireworks that flash too wide for your eyes to take them all in, and more faces than your mind can remember." Greg turned his dark eyes to Mycroft. "But it's freeing, in a way. To be a stranger among strangers."

Mycroft stared at Greg, barely breathing. He could picture it very well, two strangers meeting under the stars. Sharing a glance, a smile, a kiss...

Mycroft abruptly turned away, busying himself with Icarus's saddle. He suddenly realized how this might look — the elder Prince conniving to meet outside the castle, under the cover of night. For a moment, he imagined how the Queen would react. His mind created a glimpse of her expression of fury; he flinched away from it.

He reached to adjust the stirrup of the saddle with care. His fingers were pale under the moonlight, almost translucent.

"I apologize if I have offended you, your Highness," Greg's voice was hollow. When Mycroft stole a glance his way, it was to see his features tight and withdrawn.

"There’s no need to apologize. I’m eager to learn about the ways of the West and you have shown yourself to be an admirable teacher."

"Do— do ask. I would be honoured to answer any of your questions."

They climbed the stairs leading back to the castle. Gregory reached for Icarus, and Mycroft stepped aside. He watched as Gregory turned to the stables, his hands gripping his horse's reins tightly.

Some strange emotion rose in his throat as he realized that this was it; they had already said goodbye without Mycroft realizing it.

Mycroft's hand reached out as Greg stilled. It felt like a dance, their bodies aligned towards each other, their chests caving in with the force of a single breath. There wasn’t any music yet but the silence was expectant — it was the quiet before the first step. Anticipation coursed through Mycroft's veins.

Mycroft curled the fingers of his right hand and brought his hand close to his chest. The side of his wrist lightly touched his chest, bringing his hand close to his heart.

Greg returned the gesture. His features had softened into a smile.

"Did I—" Mycroft pressed his hand harder against his chest, in a vain hope to quieten his beating heart. "I read about it in a book, it might not be—"

"A perfect rendition," Greg murmured. "It’s been some time since I've seen it."

Mycroft was grateful for the mask and the low light; they hid his blush perfectly.

"A gracious way to tell me our Western literature is quite outdated."

Greg smiled. "Not what I meant." Greg tilted his head forwards, his fingers uncurling from his chest. "Did your book mention what the gesture means?"

Mycroft wordlessly shook his head. It made some strands of hair fall against his mask.

"My ma used to say it was about someone staying close to your heart, but she was the only one to say that.” Greg twisted the ring on his finger. _A moonstone. How fitting._ "Usually, it means ‘may you leave smiling’."

"A very poetic farewell," Mycroft remarked. It felt right, to whisper poetry under the stars. The night would keep their words safe.

Icarus nosed at Greg's shirt with a huff. It broke through their reverie. Mycroft heard the voices of the guards rounding the castle. They were coming this way.

Greg curled his fingers to his chest again, nodded then turned away. Mycroft watched them go, this Westerner and his horse, until the darkness had swallowed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust Mycroft to give himself 24 hours to learn a new language and then dive head-first into difficult poetry (what do you mean, that's not how it's done?)  
> Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter! I'd love to hear your thoughts and reactions in the comments <3


	8. Message

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week, we finally learn why Gregory and Anderson have been sent to the North!

_Sunlight warmed his skin and he turned towards it, smiling. Even through his eyelids, the light was blinding. For a moment, he entertained the idea of opening his eyes and staring directly at the sun above._

_The earth under his feet was slightly wet. He stretched his toes and felt water trickling under his feet. He swayed slowly, although there was no wind, and only belatedly realized that he was moving to a tune — a soothing melody. He opened his eyes, squinting at the harsh light, but couldn’t see the violinist anywhere._

_Mycroft looked around and found the cold walls of the castle encircling him. As he watched, the room seemed to close in on itself; the light dimmed. His blood was pumping through his veins, his limbs shook with the need to_ run _. Except there was nowhere to run to._

_His eyes moved desperately from corner to corner to find an escape. Fear crept up on him and constricted his throat like a tightly-coiled snake._

_His gaze stopped on an odd shadow in the corner furthest away from him. It was huge, taller than him, and it seemed to be taking laboured breaths. He tilted his head to get a better perspective but didn’t dare walk closer._

_He carefully took a step back. His thigh bumped into a low table, making it shake. Mycroft turned sharply as an object fell from the table. His hand shot out. He grasped it and hissed in pain; it was ice-cold to the touch._

_The arrow grazed his palm as he clumsily closed his hand around it. Blood oozed from the wound — red droplets fell on the puddle of water under his feet._

***

Mycroft awoke to find Faith already in his bedroom, sorting through clothes. He dived for the curtains around his bed and closed them tightly. Only once in the darkness did he raise a shaking hand to his throat _— no snake twisting around his neck_ _—_ up to his eyes _—_ _no wound slashing his palm_ _—_ and into his hair, hoping to tame it a bit.

"I trust you have kept your back turned," Mycroft grumbled, once he had regained his voice. "I am not yet decent. In fact, I do not remember sending for you."

Mycroft barely had time to adjust the mask on his face before Faith stalked to the bed. She sounded entirely unimpressed with Mycroft’s recriminations.

"Up you get! No time for your grumpiness today! The Audience starts in twenty-five minutes!" 

Mycroft sprang to his feet. "Why haven’t I been notified of this?!" Mycroft tried to control his body's shaking. The dream was receding from his mind, but it had left a metallic taste in his mouth. "It has barely been a few days; I’m not ready yet."

"The decision was made only a few hours ago. You’re lucky I asked Maggie to warn me, if she learned anything about it." Mycroft turned his head to the window; the sun was just rising. "Don't let them intimidate you, young master. You’re ready."

Mycroft huffed but didn’t correct her. Faith would not make such a comment lightly; there was nothing to do except trust in her judgement. Still, his nerves were not so easily settled. He rubbed his hand against his thigh a few times, tightly controlling his breathing to a more settled pace.

As if she sensed Mycroft’s scepticism, Faith added, "Maximillian came to drop off some more books; he ran out of breath telling me all about your newest accomplishments in learning about the West. _You’re ready_."

Something about her tone sounded finite, as if she was telling an universal truth. In all the years Mycroft had known her, she had never bothered to say something again, not when she had already spoken her mind. It was a testament to her conviction that she repeated herself now, she who did it so little.

"Thank you." Mycroft looked down at the outfit Faith had chosen. The silver laces on the grey doublet made it refined and practical. "A perfect choice."

Faith pushed an apple into his hands as she worked on his sleeves. When Mycroft didn’t move to eat it, she sighed but didn’t insist.

"You don't have time to daydream, boy. The audience is in the Winter Courtroom, at the other end of the castle." Mycroft turned wide eyes to her; she pushed him firmly between his shoulder blades. "Is something the matter with your hearing? Go, then! You won't get to the East Tower just by staring at my face!"

It was enough to push Mycroft into action. He ran through corridors, climbing stairs and turning sharp corners. Once he had climbed the last step of the steep stairs leading to the Courtroom, he slowed down. No need to appear out of breath as he entered. He arranged his clothes into a slightly less rumpled look, flattened his hair and straightened his posture. This way, his entrance would be fashionably late, as if this was a planned choice on Mycroft’s part.

When Mycroft strolled graciously into the room, the King and Queen were already seated. Their thrones were against the far wall. Standing in front of them, with their backs to the entrance, were Lestrade and Anderson. 

Mycroft took the time it took him to cross the room to study the two men.

Lestrade was a picture of calm. He stood like a soldier, back straight, chin up and heels together. He seemed to radiate waves of power, even while being stared down by a King and a Queen — how did he manage that?

Beside him, Anderson looked like he had walked through a storm. His hair was ruffled, random strands standing vertical, as if trying to reach the high ceiling. As Mycroft watched, Anderson ran a hair through the mess, further disheveling it. He looked for all the world as if he had woken a mere minute ago. It was quite refreshing to see someone else out of their element — Mycroft stared almost fondly at his half-laced boots.

"So good of you to join us." The Queen's tone was frosty, her eyes brushed Mycroft’s form and passed over him as if he were a shadow.

"A slight miscommunication seems to have occurred; nothing major, of course." Mycroft smiled thinly; it did not reach his eyes. "It was good of you to wait for me, in these conditions."

The room fell deadly silent, the few courtesans around them stopping to stare. The rustle of Mycroft's clothes as he climbed the steps to the thrones was deafening.

They had not brought in the third throne. Mycroft ignored the insult and stood tall, on the King's right — the place of the Counsellor. King Robert stiffened but he didn’t dare say anything dismissive in front of courtesans.

"Let us begin, then," Queen Esther spoke, keeping her attention on the Westerners in front of them.

"The Court of the North is listening, travellers," the King added.

Mycroft bristled. Surely missionaries from their allies of old deserved better than being dubbed travellers? It seemed he was the only one to have noted this affront, however. Neither Lestrade nor Anderson reacted. Mycroft clasped his hands behind his back and counted his breaths, until the prickle of anger tightening his shoulder blades lifted.

"Very well, your Majesties." Anderson bowed his head a bit nervously. "The late King Constantine has left his country to his beloved son, John. Our new King wished to extend a hand of friendship. He feels his father has unjustly let the situation escalate."

"In the spirit of this new harmony," Gregory walked forward, the markings on his vest glittering in the light — swirling blue lines which twisted like vines in a mesmerizing pattern. “Please accept this gift." Lestrade knelt on the floor, extending his hands. In them were two leather-bound books.

They looked old, ancient even. One was dark green, the other purple. Mycroft's fingers ached to touch their spines. He took an involuntary step forward.

Since neither the Queen nor the King moved, Mycroft kept walking, until he was standing in front of Lestrade. The man had not moved yet, his head bowed and his hands outstretched. It was a weird way to give a gift, perhaps another western custom. It felt almost spiritual; a plea, a declaration of trust.

Mycroft's hands brushed the green book. From where he stood, he could read the title upside down perfectly well. He muttered the Western words under his breath to make sense of them. He mustered his shaky knowledge of the language — based on the reading of a dictionary for two hours.

"Wave..." Mycroft murmured. "Wave enchained?"

"The bound wave." Greg turned his eyes to Mycroft, watching him through the hair that had fallen over his eyes. "A personal favourite."

Mycroft took the books with reverence, his eyes catching the name of the author of the second book — Robin Armand. His heart stuttered in his chest, his fingers tightening around the offering. He exchanged a glance with Gregory, whose lips silently quirked up.

Mycroft quenched the urge to drag him out of the room, hide in a library and make the man read and explain every last poem in the books. He was supposed to help, not cause a scandal by dragging away one of the diplomats in the middle of the Audience — and the more competent one, at that.

Mycroft couldn’t justify lingering any longer. The whole court would spread rumours anyway, no need to fuel their fire. He retreated to the thrones, his mind on the matter at hand once more. One book was handed to the Queen, the other to the King.

"For your Majesties," he announced with a loud voice. "A gift from our _allies_ from the West."

The King's hands briefly clenched around the book before he forced himself to relax.

Mycroft's comment left them with no choice. They could not publicly declare that the West was not their ally, that would be a deathly insult to King John — one that could very well mean war. All that was left for them was to nod.

"We thank you, Westerners." The Queen managed not to openly show her contempt, although her thin smile was strained.

"To show his good intentions, John has wished to offer an... agreement," Anderson continued, his usually loud voice now reduced to a hesitant mutter.

"And what kind of agreement are we talking about?"

"A wedding," Lestrade answered. The court gasped. "To settle a deeper bond between our two nations."

Mycroft stayed still, his face expressionless under the mask. His shaking leg betrayed his inner thoughts. When Mycroft was born, an arrangement had been made between the Holmes and a powerful family from the North. Of course, the Douglas clan had broken off their promise seven years later, when circumstances had… changed. Since then, no-one had talked of marriage, and Mycroft had been quite content with things the way they were. Now, though, an impending sense of doom settled over him.

"Is King John wishing to marry? I’m sure the North has plenty of fine maidens looking to—"

Anderson interrupted the Queen in his haste to get the words out : "Our King was thinking of his sister, Henriette. She is still young but—"

But their _beloved_ John didn’t care about her age. It made Mycroft sick to the stomach, to think of this poor Princess, who was probably barely out of childhood. She must be terrified, knowing she would be sent off to live in the cold lands of the North — she who had presumably been brought up hating them.

Mycroft's blood ran cold. Was that what Greg was here to do? To organize a union between John's sister and Mycroft? _A deeper bond_ , he had said. 

Mycroft's chest hurt; suddenly, the way Greg had been charming, unafraid of him, made sense. It had seemed sincere. Yet how many trustworthy-looking men turned out to have hidden motives?

Things were unfolding at a slowed-down pace, as if it were a nightmare. Mycroft's fingers gripped his wrist behind his back. It was the only thing he could do, to hold on, awaiting sentence. The room seemed to swim before his eyes, Anderson reduced to a dark shape in his vision.

"We had been made aware that the North Royal Family had two sons and thus thought that Prince William—"

Mycroft's eyes snapped shut. The mixture of relief and new horror made his head spin. Sherlock was even less ready to be a husband than Mycroft. He was only a child — and a stubborn one. He would never accept someone whose company was forced on him.

As Mycroft forced his eyes open, he spotted a splash of colour running to the door. He recognized the curls a second later.

Sherlock was running out of the Courtroom, tears in his eyes. Mycroft wanted to call out to him, but he restrained himself. Here, he wasn’t allowed to be _Mycroft_. He was a Prince, perhaps even a royal Counsellor.

He could not run after his brother — even if it was what his heart screamed at him to do.

Lestrade had turned, too. His eyes were following the little Prince's retreat. He looked remorseful. Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to sympathize with him, however. He reminded himself of the days and the numerous conversations they had had. Gregory had had every opportunity to reveal the real reason for his visit. He had _chosen_ to remain silent.

"If you will excuse me, Your Majesties." Lestrade bowed, his eyes fixed on the door through which Sherlock had disappeared. "It seems our declaration was ill-timed."

"Not at all. Prince William is a sensitive boy but he will grow into a strong man, like his father." The Queen tilted up her head. "We will think about your generous offer. Until then, consider partaking in the Hunt."

Thus dismissed, the two Westerners walked to the door, never once turning their backs on the thrones, as was the custom. Lestrade's eyes were not on the King and Queen, though. They were fixed on Mycroft.

Slowly, Mycroft curled his fingers towards his palm — and raised his hand.

_A farewell._


	9. Rift

Mycroft frayed himself a path through the courtesans leaving the Courtroom. The King and Queen had already disappeared to the King’s Hall. They had hurried ahead without a backward glance. The precious books, they had carelessly left on their thrones.

Mycroft had hesitated only a moment before taking the book from the King’s throne and slipping it inside the bag at his belt. The purple book now rested against his hip, as light as a secret. Mycroft would have felt a twinge of remorse at the idea of stealing if it weren’t for the memory of another book, tossed in the fire, reduced to no more than ashes.

The East Tower was full of courtesans today, all of them stopping to greet Mycroft. Mycroft returned their bows with nods. The motion felt stiff and quite strange — never before had he been acknowledged this way, and the simple change brought warm pride blossoming in his chest.

Yet he couldn’t focus on their unexpected behaviour for long, not when his mind was full with worry about Sherlock. _Where had he run off to?_

Following his instincts, Mycroft turned right, then left. He arrived in front of stairs, different from the ones he had taken earlier, although he remembered them instantly, from hazy games of his infancy.

"Sherlock?" He called, softly.

Beneath him came the tell-tale sound of a sob, quickly muffled. It broke Mycroft's heart. He staggered down the last steps, reaching the narrow alcove where Sherlock had taken shelter. The stairs stretched above the alcove, keeping it from intruder’s eyes — it was impossible to notice unless one turned left at the bottom of the stairs and stood right in front of it — while keeping out the light. Even the half-light, however, could not hide Sherlock’s tears and his drawn, too pale cheeks.

"Oh, Sherlock..." Mycroft crouched, ignoring the scream of pain his leg gave. "We will find a way out of this, I promise."

Sherlock crawled to him, hiding his face against Mycroft's chest. Last autumn, he had had a growth spurt, growing tall and lanky, yet in this moment he felt as small as when he was a child.

Sherlock sniffled against him and Mycroft could feel tears soaking his doublet. He paid it no mind, merely applied a hand to Sherlock's back, rubbing up and down.

He used to do this, before. Sherlock would toddle from his rooms to Mycroft’s and would refuse to leave, sprawling on Mycroft’s bed like a stubborn cat. Mycroft invariably gave in — with more than a small amount of sighing, he was being forced out of bed at an indecent hour, after all. He carried his brother back to his own bed and plied him with stories and secrets.

At first, Sherlock would listen intently, his young mind alight and committing every word to memory. After some time, he laid back, and his blinks got longer and longer, until he fell asleep to the sounds of Mycroft’s voice, snuggled up against his chest.

Mycroft remembered the book in his pocket. He pushed Sherlock back and pulled it out, producing it with all the confidence of a jester performing a novel trick. Sherlock’s mouth shivered into a half-smile before his expression fell back to its earlier numb state.

"Have you ever seen a proper Westerner book before?" Sherlock turned puffy eyes to him; Mycroft smiled as gently as he could manage. "I certainly had not."

Sherlock put his blackened hands on the book, entranced. Sherlock had probably been studying different types of ashes, _again_. Mycroft could not find it in himself to reprimand him.

"Will I have to live over there, once—" Sherlock’s voice broke and he kept quiet for a moment, his index following the swirls of the foreign title. "Once I’m married?"

Mycroft swallowed and stayed silent. He desperately wanted to fix this, to put a smile on Sherlock’s face and to be his brother’s hero once more. But he had no idea if there _was_ anything to fix. For the first time in his life, he felt powerless, a sense of helplessness washing over him — and he hated it.

Loud voices jolted him from his thoughts.

"I am telling you Lestrade, we are lost!"

"Of course not! I recognize these stairs, look. It’ll lead us down to the Great Hall, and from there we will reach the North Wing again. It’s not the most direct route, I’m sure, but at least it’s better than asking Mrs Hudson for directions, _again_."

"That was one time," Anderson grumbled. "Well, lead the way. It's not like we could get any more lost."

Their steps echoed in the stairwell, one set brisk and heavy; the other lighter yet decisive. Despite himself, Mycroft lifted his head and stared at the underneath of the steps, tracking their progress by ear alone.

Sherlock stiffened and tried to hide the book but Mycroft stopped him with a hand on his wrist. He might have been mistaken about their real intentions, might have foolishly trusted them both. Yet there was nothing to fear from Lestrade and Anderson. Of that he was certain, even in the wake of their — of _Gregory_ ’s — betrayal.

Mycroft leaned forward and caught a glimpse of the two foreigners. Anderson was talking animatedly, his hands moving around himself as he spoke.

"I say, the little Prince made quite a show of himself earlier," Anderson declared.

Sherlock let out a gasp, his face going red with anger. Mycroft quickly put a hand over his mouth, lest he start sprouting insults in retaliation.

"That lack of decorum really—" Anderson was cut off by Lestrade’s voice, quiet but stern words that Mycroft couldn’t make out.

By some stroke of luck, neither man appeared to have heard Sherlock. Mycroft wondered for a moment how two men so blind to their surroundings could have survived the journey to the North. The roads crossing the border, abandoned for twenty years, must have turned into wild paths full of dangers. After all, the Hawk Woods separating the two countries were not remembered for their welcoming atmosphere.

Sherlock shook away from Mycroft’s grasp and glared at him, although he stayed silent. As the silence lingered and the stairs appeared deserted, he opened his mouth but Mycroft stopped him again. He had stayed in the same position for so long that he couldn’t feel his left leg, while his stiff leg was stuck in a painful posture. He would rather have this conversation elsewhere, somewhere where he could stretch out his legs. Besides, this alcove would echo everything they said.

Mycroft leaned out of the alcove and stiffened in shock when he realized that the two men hadn’t left as he thought. Anderson stood with his back to him, his head swivelling left and right — presumably searching for the Great Hall Gregory had mentioned earlier. Gregory was beside him, his gaze making out every corner of the stairs and corridor. Before Mycroft could do more than freeze and hold his breath, Gregory’s eyes were on him.

His expression was unreadable from this far away; it seemed as blank as the face of a stranger. It was easier this way, Mycroft told himself, and he resolutely moved his gaze away. After all, they were nothing more than strangers — now that Gregory had delivered his King’s message, he would only linger until he had an answer to bring back with him. Then he would leave just like he had first come, never to be seen again.

It was difficult to muster enthusiasm at the prospect, but Mycroft sternly reminded himself of how Gregory had casually uttered the word _wedding_ , as if he wasn’t sealing the fate of two children.

Mycroft knew that in all fairness, one could not blame the carrier for the message he was asked to relay. Yet, he couldn’t forget that he had trusted Gregory so easily, when all the while the other man had hidden agendas. He had seemed so open and reliable, seemingly always pleased with Mycroft’s company — when, in fact, he had only been gleaning details about Sherlock, or whatever else his King had mandated him to learn.

Anderson's voice cried out, breaking through their shared silence. "We're saved! I can see someone walking through the corridor here, yes, _hello_! And the big stairway, there!" Lestrade hissed something in answer. "Oh, you're like a broken record, talking on and on about how I should lower my voice!"

Mycroft winced in sympathy as the two men’s voices faded in the distance. Even from twenty paces away, he had heard Anderson perfectly well. He could only imagine what it was like for Greg, right next to him all day long. Then he remembered the rift between them, and he turned his thoughts elsewhere.

When Mycroft failed to move quickly enough, Sherlock forced his way out of the alcove. In his haste, he ended up pushing Mycroft back against the wall. Mycroft stumbled after him, and called out his name before he could disappear once more.

Sherlock turned towards Mycroft, his features now cloaked in anger. If it weren’t for his shiny eyes and red nose, it would have been impossible to tell he had been crying only moments before. Mycroft was aware of the distance between them, an endless river Mycroft did not know how to cross. His help and comfort would only be refused now that Sherlock had gathered himself.

"Go down to Mrs Hudson’s kitchens, I heard she had made some lovely treats for dinner, I’m sure she will let you try some."

"I don’t need anyone else _pitying_ me," Sherlock replied, twisting his face in a sneer.

Mycroft decided to change tracks: "Nothing has been decided yet. If you don’t wish for this to happen, I will—"

"What, exactly, will you achieve? You have no power, no influence. You had to beg to witness this Audience and yet it has somehow gone to your head."

Mycroft bristled and straightened to his full height, desperate to prove his brother wrong, only to find that he couldn’t. As much as he despised it, he was indeed completely powerless. No amount of denial would protect him from that harsh reality. It was a truth so well-known that his own brother expected nothing to come out of his help, had in fact stopped relying on him.

Another thought crossed Mycroft’s mind. Was this why Gregory hadn’t confided in him? Had he deemed Mycroft not important enough to notify him? Gregory had always treated him with respect, but that may simply be the way he treated everyone.

The thought that his own inadequacy had been so visible made something twist painfully in his chest. Everyone could see his lack of influence and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing except— 

***

"This is most unusual, Mycroft," the King remarked, his brow furrowing in silent reproach.

It was true that Mycroft rarely wandered to the Sunroom — practically nobody did. Once the King or Queen retired there, even the favoured courtesans did not dare to follow.

"I apologize for disturbing your rest, but this was an emergency," Mycroft answered.

Queen Esther immediately straightened, turning away from the sight of the forest below.

"What do you mean? Is Sherlock all right?" The urgency in her tone hinted at something deeper, some fear Mycroft had never seen in her before. It vanished before Mycroft could study it more closely, the Queen’s features easing into her usual, controlled expression.

"Sherlock is most troubled by the message received today," Mycroft answered honestly, his mind conjuring the sound of Sherlock’s broken sobs. "We can’t possibly accept King John’s offer."

King Robert sniffed and shook his head, seemingly waving away Mycroft’s words.

"Nonsense. He is young, he will get used to the idea in time."

Mycroft knew that this was how it had been for the King and Queen and for every monarch before them, that this was the way of things. But the sight of Sherlock’s tears haunted his vision still — he refused to accept this as his brother’s future.

"He might, but—"

"Enough now," Queen Esther spoke over him, her words overlapping Mycroft even though she had not raised her voice at all. "Was it not you who argued in favour of an alliance with the West only a few days ago? You now have your wish."

Although her tone was carefully controlled, Mycroft could hear the irony behind each word. She mocked him for his foolish declarations of alliance and love between the North and the West. After all, here he was now, begging them to deny King John, regardless of the diplomatic insult that might create.

Mycroft slowly walked around the room, his fingers tracing mindless patterns over the leaves of the nearest plant. As a child, he had never understood the love his parents had for the Sunroom, but he saw it now — the gentle way the leaves caught the light was as soothing to watch as water flowing over rocks.

Through some terrible twist of fate, it seemed that he had to choose. Either his brother’s future or the Western alliance. Mycroft envisioned King John’s reaction if his delegation came back with news of the North rejecting his sister. Much as Mycroft loathed the idea, it seemed a royal marriage was unavoidable.

_A royal marriage…_

Mycroft turned back to the King and Queen. They had delved into a private conversation of their own while Mycroft thought, their heads bent close together. The Queen took one look at Mycroft’s face and she froze — whatever she saw there leaving her speechless. She stumbled over her words and stopped, stunned.

"King John offered his sister’s hand to one Northern Prince, but it would make no difference to them if the marriage was arranged with the other one." Mycroft inhaled and continued: "I will take Sherlock’s place."


	10. Lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi <3 After all the emotions of last week, this is a softer chapter - I hope you'll like it!

The atmosphere in the castle was almost festive in the days leading to the Royal Hunt. The nobles lucky enough to be invited were staying at the castle. Others stayed in inns or a cousin’s house. They came from every corner of the country, all in the hopes of achieving their goal — be it securing a good match for their daughters, negotiating trades or simply enjoying Blackloch’s atmosphere. 

They roamed the halls as a joyous, boisterous team, calling loudly after sweet maidens and disclaiming their hunting prowess in loud, epic tales. During the meals, they were seated near the King. Lord Theodric or the Duke of Lambard would then regale the Court with tales of the former Hunts.

With the arrival of the hunters, the Court became more animated. Acrobats, jugglers and minstrels entertained the Court before supper. They rivalled throughout the evening, pushing their skills to new heights.

Mycroft had taken to wandering the castle, often taking refuge in the library or the North Wing, away from the crowds. He had always hated participating in the Hunt and had tried to excuse himself from going more than once. He despised the way the hunters both boasted openly about their kills and exchanged secrets and promises in whispers — it was plots and politics surrounded by blood and cruelty. 

This time, he was bound to go, since his engagement would be revealed to all the nobles there. The King and Queen had agreed that it would be best, given that everyone influential in the North would be present. Even Lestrade and Anderson had been invited, not that Mycroft knew if they would appear — these days, they were nowhere to be found. He was so used to encountering them everywhere, the contrast was jarring. For all Mycroft knew, they had already left for the West, and no-one had thought to inform him.

While Mycroft evaded the nobles and the hunters alike, Sherlock clung to them, listening in on their conversations and following them everywhere. He looked at them with stars in his eyes, admiring the fine cloths of their cloaks and the shiny quality of their armour.

During every meal, he animatedly talked and asked questions about blood splatters to anyone who glanced his way. He only stopped when the Queen put a hand on his wrist. The gesture looked casual enough, almost absent-minded, but Mycroft had seen her act just as relaxed while keeping his arm in a vice-like grip.

Once the Queen had let him go, Sherlock slouched in his seat. He had been frowning ever since King Robert had reminded him that he would not take part in the Hunt. And despite his numerous protestations, the King had not wielded. It was now the eve of the Hunt, and it seemed his hopes of swaying his views on the matter had vanished.

"This is so unfair," Sherlock drawled out the last word. He dipped his spoon a few times in his soup without it ever going to his mouth.

Mycroft felt sorry for his brother, yet he agreed with the King. Sherlock was far too young. Riding on horseback for days, chasing after wild animals, would bore him after a few hours. Mycroft shuddered at the thought of Sherlock slipping away from everyone else and getting lost, injured by a wild boar — or worse.

Mycroft knew that the fear gripping his throat was not rational. He knew that Sherlock was perfectly capable of looking after himself. But the whispers from his nightmares kept taunting him. Only the knowledge that Sherlock would stay inside, far from the lake, managed to uncoil the knot of anxiety twisting his insides.

Mycroft trusted the Queen to organize entertainment for her dearest. Magicians and fire eaters would be summoned to the castle. The news of the engagement being arranged with Mycroft instead of him would raise his spirits, Mycroft hoped. Sherlock would soon lose his frown.

"The castle will be quieter for you to conduct your experiments. That is something to look forward to, at least," Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock scoffed. "An empty castle has no secret to reveal. No, I will have to brush up on my horse riding and learn about our customs..."

Sherlock punctuated his last words with a put-upon sigh and a pout. Mycroft bit his lip before he smiled at his brother’s antics — Sherlock would take it as a grave insult.

For his part, Mycroft had received the same education with the same tutors, and he remembered it fondly. The history lessons were his favourite. Maximillian knew when to add little anecdotes to make his subject interesting. Sherlock should give his education all the attention it deserved.

Loud laughs resounded across the room. Sir Humphry was shaking with amusement. Mycroft startled when he recognized the two men beside him. It seemed that Anderson and Lestrade hadn’t left the castle after all. As Mycroft watched, Anderson guffawed and Lestrade's eyes were sparkling with mirth as he laughed along.

Amid the chatter and the noise of a dozen goblets, it was impossible to pick out his laugh among the others. His mouth smiled at a joke Mycroft could not hear, his lips shaped words Mycroft could not guess. Somehow, Gregory felt further away from him in that moment than ever before.

It had only been days since they walked under the moonlight together — it felt like a lifetime ago. It was hard to remember how attuned to each other they had been.

Mycroft remembered Sir Humphry from previous Hunts. The man was a skilful master of words. He would use them and twist them into delightful stories. He could turn the world into a turtle and make it seem rational. Mycroft usually escaped his chatter with a heavy headache.

"A very noble occupation," Mycroft answered, distracted.

"You're not listening!" Sherlock complained. Mycroft did not bother lying and turned back his eyes to his brother. "This is my last opportunity to join in on the Hunt, and I should be allowed to go!"

Mycroft waved at his brother to lower his voice, all the while thinking of his answer. The King and Queen hadn’t informed Sherlock of the latest developments concerning King John’s offer. But that didn’t necessarily mean Mycroft couldn’t tell him. He would have informed him already if he hadn’t felt so embarrassed.

He didn’t regret his choice to marry Henriette, but he hated how vulnerable it left him. When he had said those words, _I will take Sherlock’s place_ , the King and Queen had looked at him as if they could see _through_ him. He had hated it. 

Regardless of how he felt, he couldn’t let Sherlock keep on believing he was soon to be married. He had thought a few more days would change nothing and that he could cowardly leave the task to Queen Esther.

"Actually—" Mycroft paused. Now that he had started, he found that his words had all left him. Every explanation he thought of either felt too false or too revealing. "Actually, you—"

"Don’t bother," Sherlock seethed. "It’s obvious what you think, this is nothing to you, you’re not the one being married off to a stranger, after all!"

Mycroft stiffened and, before he could lose his nerve, whispered, "But I am. The engagement will be settled between Henriette and me, it will be made public in a few days."

For one moment, Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion, searching Mycroft’s face — or what he could see of it. Whatever he found there, it must have been convincing, for he leaned back against his seat and gasped. A tiny part of Mycroft’s mind was amused at finally having managed to shock Sherlock into silence. His anxious thoughts soon washed over his amusement, though.

Several lifetimes seemed to pass while Sherlock recovered. Just as Mycroft had convinced himself that he had made a horrible mistake, Sherlock spoke.

"Thank you," he croaked in a low voice, ducking his head as if to escape Mycroft’s gaze.

All the tension left Mycroft’s body. Perhaps these two words seemed insignificant, considering the magnitude of what Mycroft had just done. Yet, as Mycroft gazed at Sherlock munching his bread with renewed enthusiasm, he couldn’t help but think that if this was all the reward he would get, it was worth it.

"Sherlock, I should think now would be a good time to show your talents as a violinist." The Queen did not bother lowering her voice. "I have been praising your skills to Lord Percevale here, and he'd like to hear you play."

"As we all would," The King added.

Caught in the midst of hundreds of gazes turned towards him, Sherlock could hardly refuse. He stood from his chair, his gaze confidently taking in the public before him. Only Mycroft noticed the slight tremble of his wrists. He reached out and brushed his brother’s hand as he passed.

"Breathe, Sherlock," he reminded him in an undertone.

"I am perfectly capable of doing that without your meddling."

If Sherlock had talked louder, several nobles would have been shocked, no doubt. Yet Mycroft took no offence in the sharp words — Sherlock's words lacked their usual bite. Mycroft could only see his profile now, but it looked like he was almost smiling, his lip twitching.

After a few steps, he saw Sherlock take a deep breath, in and out, and he had to stifle a smile of his own.

As Sherlock walked to the middle of the room, so that all three tables could see him, conversations stilled. A servant brought a violin to Sherlock, rushing in and out.

Sherlock turned the instrument this way and that. It had been years since he last played. The instrument was a gift of Mycroft's; he had thought it had been thrown away when Sherlock had turned to other interests. He had been wrong, apparently.

At the first notes, high and clear, Mycroft released a breath. This was the lullaby Sherlock learned, all those years ago. It had been the first one he ever managed to play.

Sherlock closed his eyes as the melody ascended. Mycroft followed suit.

_He could see Sherlock in front of him, a younger version of his brother. His hands shook against the bow but he proceeded with the song. After a few moments, he stopped abruptly. He kept his eyes averted. A blush blossomed on his cheeks._

_"And what_ — _" Sherlock's voice wavered. "What did you think of it?"_

 _Mycroft squashed the urge to tug his mask away_ — _letting Sherlock see how wide he was smiling, how his cheeks ached with it. He settled for letting emotion shine through his gaze instead._

_"The most beautiful thing I have ever heard."_

_Sherlock blushed further at the praise, even as he shook his head. "That cannot be true. Did you not hear the mistake I made, during the_ — _"_

_Mycroft held up a placating hand. "I have never heard a perfect rendition of a partition, and I do not wish to. Art is made to be felt, not executed with one's eyes fixed on the notes."_

The music morphed, changed. Mycroft opened his eyes. He winced at the light of the fading sun disappearing behind the mountains, in the West.

Mycroft turned back to Sherlock. His bow was gliding over the cords, Sherlock's cheek pressed against the headrest, his curls hiding his expression.

The music picked up. Some guests started clapping, others getting up to dance. They waltzed in and out of rooms, their laughs sounding from far away.

And throughout it all, Mycroft picked up on the melody beneath it. The melancholy sounds of the lullaby pierced at his heart like nothing else in this world could.

He wondered if he would be any good at the violin. Art had always seemed to demand more emotion than he possessed. Surely, the Ice Prince of Blackloch could not hope to play _with feeling_. It would be laughable.

And yet... Mycroft's fingers itched to find a piano. He would first brush the dust off, his fingers flying over the keys. Then he would follow his brother's melody. That old, haunting lullaby of old. It turned in his head, over and over again.

Sherlock let the bow tremble in his hands, the notes jumbling together in their haste. Then the music faded. Sherlock did not move from his spot, his hands still holding the violin up against his cheek. 

A single tear shone on his cheek, yellow under the light of the candles. Mycroft couldn’t look away from it.

The last note still vibrated in the air. It was high, a clear sound of painful longing. It shot through Mycroft like an invisible blow. He had a brief flash of wide, green eyes... The world rushed back to him. The clapping sounded too loud to his ears. He smiled feebly at his brother, ashamed of his reaction — this was supposed to be a joyful piece. 

He would make a terrible pianist, Mycroft decided. Bringing forth melancholy when the piece was meant to be played to lovers; making his audience cry when he attempted a warm ballad.

Sherlock went back to his seat. His hands were still tight on his bow — he had forgotten to hand it to the valet. His hands were no longer shaking.

"You should eat before it turns cold," Mycroft said through his too-tight throat. It was easier to say than _I love you_.

"Yes, brother," Sherlock answered, without an ounce of scorn or sarcasm. Mycroft hoped it meant _I love you too_. He did not dare ask.


End file.
